Worse Games to Play
by Belmione
Summary: "In this moment I'm not sure how I've said no to him for fifteen years.  Peeta Mellark hasn't smiled like that since the day on the rooftop of the Training Center before the Quarter Quell."  My take on Katniss's decision to have children with Peeta.
1. Chapter 1

_**Hi all! So, this story is basically my take on Katniss's decision to have children with Peeta. This story is pre-epilogue, but it will eventually go through to post-epilogue. I think that's all that needs saying. Hope ya'll enjoy!**_

_** Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. Suzanne Collins owns all the things. I'm just playing around with her awesome characters.**_

****When Peeta first asked me about it, I gave him a short, flat 'no,' and rolled over, my back to him. He didn't say anything in return. He knows not to argue with me. My decisions are always definitive, always final. I thought he might be a bit peeved with me when he didn't immediately cuddle up behind me. But when I woke up in the early, dark hours of the morning from nightmares, I found my hand clutching his, vice-like. Even in sleep, he knows when I need him close. Just like I know when he's seeing or hearing things not of this world; things that are a product of old mental scars the tracker-jacker venom left him. We are each other's' crutch. Both messed up beyond recognition, but able to keep each other going, limping along. It's not the most romantic arrangement, but it works for us. And there is love there. Beneath the scars and nightmares and delusions and fear, it's there. We take care of each other. It's been that way since our first games – and it will always be that way.

We glean bits of happiness from our life together, like wringing little droplets of water out of an old rag. And we try as hard as we can to keep the fear away from the other. It's always there. Fear. People can only lose so much before they can't be happy without fear that it will be taken away. We learned what triggers the other, what to say, and what not to say. How to minimize the breakdowns, the pulling out of hair, the curling into a fetal position. Which is why I am surprised when Peeta mentions it again a few months later. He knows it scares me. Why does he ask again? I give him the same answer, harsher this time. But he doesn't stop asking.

Every time he mentions it, it's the same nightmare. Always the same. I dream of reaping day. I dream that the Games never stopped. I dream of mentoring child after child, and watching them all die year after year after year. Bloody, wasteful deaths. I awaken shaking enough to wake Peeta. His arms tighten around me sleepily; he whispers kind words to me. He doesn't realize he's causing this particular nightmare.

The next time he mentions it, I say more than just 'no.' I try to explain.

"Peeta, I can't. You know it scares me."

"Yes. But I also think it would make you happy. I really do."

"It would make _you_ happy. I'd never stop being afraid."

"Katniss, I really don't think anything bad would happen. I don't."

"Every time you even _talk_ about it, I have nightmares about it. Please, Peeta, leave it be."

"Okay."

It is the tone of the word and the look on his face that makes me backpedal. Total defeat. A little bit of shame. And really, what he's asking isn't shameful. It's so sweet, and bright, and innocent. So _Peeta_. I feel bad. I sigh and Peeta's eyes brighten. He knows the look on my face means I've rethought something.

"I'm not saying yes," I warn him. He nods once, but his excitement isn't tempered.

"You can ask me once a year. Once. I can't think about it more than one day a year. You may never get a yes from me. But you can ask me. And I promise I'll really think about it."

"You'll really consider it?"

"Once a year, yes."

He kisses me so sweetly I want to cry. I hold it in because it would disturb him. He'd think I was upset with him. I just try to kiss him back as warmly.

"Thank you," he smiles.

"I do love you, Peeta," I joke.

"Oh, I know that."

I decide, from then on, to try harder to make sure Peeta knows I love him.

Peeta remembers the date that I said he could ask me. He asks every year on that day. The first time, I can't believe he remembers exactly what day it was. He always asks casually, trying to act as if he isn't hoping I'll say yes. Never any sweeping gestures, although the cheese buns he makes tend to taste a little more robust on that day of the year. He never looks me in the eye either. He doesn't want me to see first the hope, and then the defeat, in his eyes. I try my hardest to say no nicely. I always say no. And he always says the same thing afterwards.

"Alright." It's always quiet and kind. It makes me feel sick with guilt.

I keep count of the years. One, two, three, four. On year five he asks if I'm ever going to say yes. I tell him I'm not sure. Keep asking. Six, seven, eight. It surprises me when it hits year ten. Peeta has diligently asked me the same question once a year for a decade. He never presses it. He always leaves it up to me. I think of what Haymitch said to me once. That I could live three lives and still not deserve him. I feel like he's more right every day.

Year eleven he stops smiling when he asks. Year twelve, he's quieter. Thirteen, fourteen. On the fifteenth year, Peeta asks me in the middle of the day. He's fiddling with some kind of bread in the kitchen. I've just come in from the woods. This year he sounds a little different. A little more urgent, but also a bit defeated. I know what he's thinking. I'm getting older. I'm not old yet, but the years he has left to ask this of me are dwindling. He asks, for the first time, as if he knows the answer will always be 'no.' I didn't lie to Peeta. I really do think about it every year. But I've never thought about it as hard as I do this year. I don't answer him immediately. I go upstairs, take off my father's old hunting jacket and hang it back up. I twiddle my thumbs for a few minutes on the bed, just staring at the ceiling. I am still terrified. I will always be terrified. I was waiting to see if I'd ever feel better about it. I never will. But I try to come up with more reasons to say no to Peeta, reasons beyond just, "I'm scared." And I can't. I can't anymore. I think back on all these years with Peeta. I love Peeta. I think, though, that sometimes I'm too cold to Peeta. Sometimes I think I'm mean to Peeta. This one gesture will be one of the few really nice things I've ever done just for him. He's done more than enough for me.

I sit up, decided. I walk downstairs and lean in the doorframe. Peeta is still fiddling with his bread, but his face has fallen since I went upstairs. Peeta thinks I've said no. He thinks by walking out of the room I've said no. I realize he thinks I've said a final no. I just blurt it out.

"Okay."

Peeta doesn't look up. "Hm?"

"Yes."

It takes a second for it to hit him. His hands freeze.

"You said yes. Real or not real?"

Poor Peeta. My saying yes to him is so unusual that he thinks he's not in his right mind at the moment.

"Real. I'm saying yes."

Peeta laughs. It's a thick laugh that speaks of tears.

"I didn't think you'd ever say yes."

"Neither did I. But I'm saying it now."

One moment he's standing across the room from me, and the next my feet are about a foot off the ground and Peeta's clutching me as hard as he can without hurting me. I let my feet dangle, let Peeta sway back and forth with me. He's crying full force now. In this moment I'm not sure how I've said no to him for fifteen years. I expect Peeta's wanted a baby since he was one himself. He kisses me for I don't know how long, my feet still dangling. Then he pulls back and smiles at me. I start crying then. Peeta Mellark hasn't smiled like that since the day on the rooftop of the Training Center before the Quarter Quell. I didn't know how badly I missed that smile. All I can think about when I kiss him is how I don't ever want it to slip away again.

It takes a few months. I stop policing the amount of contact I have with Peeta. Before, everything had to be extremely careful. Now, when that hunger I get climbs up from my belly, I let it take control. Sometimes the feeling reminds me, perversely, of the acid mist in the clock arena. It creeps up on me, slowly, silently. My brain feels foggy. Close, thick air speaks of rain forest and I inhale deep lungfuls of it and, for once, am glad for its heat. Muscles start to quiver and twitch. I can't control it. It's getting closer. Keep moving. Breath shortens. Shallows. Quick. Desperate. Cling to Peeta, don't lose him. Not again. Never again. My own heart thundering in my ears. Can't form words. Just rough sounds, the kind Avoxes are forced to make. Muscles seize. Lungs burn. Humid heat. Keep moving. Don't stop. Breathing hard. Don't stop. Panting. Don't stop. Almost to the water, almost there. Don't stop, don't stop. Water is visible. Can't stop. Collapse in sand. Can't keep my eyes open. _Oh._ Gasp as the first wave hits. Then another. Another. Another. Another. They lap at skin. Hear Peeta's quick breath. Sigh. He's still here. Breath starts to calm. Water cures. Muscles relax, fingers unclench. Eyes slowly open. Lock eyes with Peeta. Thank God. He's alive. He's here. He's not leaving. Nuzzle Peeta's shoulder and don't move until morning.

At first I'm afraid that I've waited too long. That I'm already too old, despite being in my mid-thirties. But the day that I feel like fire is crawling up my throat all day, the day I smell the wrong thing and have to throw up in the kitchen sink because I don't have time to make it to the toilet, I know. I don't need a strange test like women in the Capitol used to use. Even without the upset stomach, years of hunting has given me an animalistic instinct that tells me things before I can work them out myself. I just know. I am pregnant.

And I panic.

It doesn't take Peeta long to find me. I've run to the woods, as I usually do in crisis. I'm high in a tree, chased there like a scrawny cat fleeing from a slavering dog. I hear Peeta's faint voice far below me, calling.

"Katniss? Katniss?"

I don't think Peeta really likes the woods. But he'll still tramp through them to find me. He always does. I watch him look up into the tapestry of branches and brush, trying to find me. His eyes light up when he spots me. He immediately lunges for a branch and begins a slow, clumsy climb up the swaying hardwood I've lodged myself in. Bless him, he can't climb trees. He's never been able to. And he's still trying.

"Don't hurt yourself, Peeta. I'll come down." I hear the quaver in my voice. It has lost its normal volume, its fortitude.

He gratefully stops his ascent, dropping unceremoniously into a pile of leaves and pine needles underneath my tree. I skitter down, landing lightly on my feet beside him. I take his hand, warm, wide, and strong, and lead him somewhere we can sit and talk more comfortably. I take him to a hill with minimal tree cover and long, soft grass. We sit together, me and Peeta. I say nothing. For a while, Peeta takes his cue from me and also remains silent. Maybe it's the shaking hands, or my biting my lip, or my ripping grass out of the ground. Whatever the case, Peeta eventually has to ask.

"What's wrong, Katniss? You haven't been this shaken up in years."

I place my trembling, fisted hands on each side of my face, clenching my eyes shut.

"I'm pregnant, that's what." I force out of clenched teeth. Peeta tries to disguise the grin that threatens to envelop his face. But try he does. I'm obviously not happy about it and Peeta isn't about to make me more anxious than I am already.

"I thought that was the goal?"

"It was," I growl.

"So what's the problem? I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"The problem is that I didn't really think about it beforehand."

"You didn't...Katniss, what?"

"I told you it scared the living hell out of me! What did you expect me to do?"

"I didn't expect it to be easy, but I didn't expect a breakdown, either. I thought you meant it when you said yes. I wanted you to be alright with everything. That's why I left it up to you. It was all you-"

"Well, it wasn't _all_ me..."

"Katniss, please."

Then the hysterics start. Words tumble out of my mouth without stopping, sentences come pouring out with no breath in between.

"What! What was I supposed to do? You look at me like you do, with that face you do, and you ask me all sweet and quiet and patient for _fifteen years_ running, and I know you want a baby so bad you're going to burst, and I just want you to be happy and I don't feel like I'm nice enough to you and I _wanted_ to give you this one thing, so I said yes, and now I'm freaking out because I didn't really think about it on my end! Okay?"

"You did it for me?"

I nod, embarrassed that there are tears on my face now.

"Katniss, I wanted you to be happy, too. I didn't want you to do it if you didn't want to. That was the whole point of asking the way I did. Do you not-" Peeta swallows hard, as if gathering courage to say it. "Do you not want this baby? Do you want-"

I shake my head, cut off the end of his sentence.

"I do want it. That's the problem."

The odd choking sounds I make when I sob start then. I haven't cried like this since Prim died. Not in fifteen years.

"That's why you're scared?" Peeta whispers. I've never told him why I didn't want children. Peeta has probably just assumed that I'm not the motherly type. My problem is that I am. I care too much. All I can think about is how I can't have my child end up like Rue or Prim.

"You're afraid someone will take it away."

I nod vigorously.

"Who is going to take it? The capitol is gone. Real or not real?"

"Real. But why not? They took everyone else! The whole of District 12, save 800 people! Everyone in our first games save us, half the people in our second! All of our friends! Almost everyone in the Hob! Your parents! Madge! Finnick! Rue, Prim..."

The last two barely escape me before I can't really speak anymore. Peeta puts a heavy, warm arm around my shoulders and presses me to him. He is the only thing keeping me together.

"I wouldn't let that happen. I'd die first."

I know he means it, but it doesn't help.

"But, Peeta, they took you, too. For a while at least. They even took you."

Peeta clenches a fist around a handful of grass and shuts his eyes for a moment, wincing. When he opens his eyes he shakes his head, as if trying to dispel some sort of confusion.

"You loved me by then. Real or not real?"

"Definitely real."

He nods. Peeta just sits there and lets me dissolve into hysteria, unable to do anything else. The best he is able to do is pick me up and put me in his lap where he has more access to me. He knows in moments like this, he is the glue keeping me from shattering. The more of him I have to cling to, the better off I am. Soon my tears turn into hyperventilation. Usually, Peeta would be handing me a paper bag at this point, used to this. But this time Peeta appears to be thinking.

"What...are you...thinking...about?" I gasp between breaths.

"I think I've thought of a game. Like my real or not real game. But for you. See, you're so convinced that everyone is going to do the worst they're capable of. Which I can't blame you for. You've seen it happen. I've seen it happen. But what would happen if, when you started getting scared, you thought about all the good things you've seen people do?"

I nod a few times. I have to do something or I'll never survive this.

"Maybe."

"Let's try it right now. What's the first good thing you saw someone do? Ever. Something they didn't have to do, but did it anyway."

"That's easy. It was you."

"What, the bread I gave you when we were children?"

I nod. "I've told you before, you saved my family's life."

Peeta smiles very softly. Lovingly.

"Right, so that's one.. But we can do more than that. Another."

"Everyone who took care of my family when I was gone. During the first games. Gale and his family and others."

"Yeah. Maybe from someone you didn't expect?"

"District eleven sending me things my first games. And Thresh, who didn't kill me when he should have. Although, he did kill Clove right before that, so maybe that's not a good one."

"No, I think it is. He only killed Clove because she was cruel. Thresh had a heart."

"He did. But so many of those people died. The people who did nice things."

"Yes, but a lot of them are still here. And there are people you haven't even met who are the same. Is this working?"

"A little," I admit.

Peeta sits with me on that hill for the rest of the day. We keep our list going. Sometimes he mentions things from his own experience, or things I've forgotten. Sometimes I remind him of things. He lets me think, or talk, or not talk. For the last hour, neither one of us says a thing. We just sit in the orange pre-dusk and hear the woods rustle as a temperate, gentle breeze blows. I rest my head on Peeta's shoulder, enjoy the mingling scents of Peeta and my woods. Two of my favorite things. As orange fades to the blue-black of impending night, Peeta shifts.

"Should we go back?"

I nod and fluidly rise. He follows me. I have to go a little slower than normal because Peeta doesn't know these hills like I do. I lead him along, my hand in his. Once we're past the old fence, Peeta clears his throat.

"So, am I allowed to be excited now? If you're still upset, just tell me no."

I am by no means alright. But since the hyperventilating has ceased, I decide to give Peeta his moment of elation. It was all for him anyway.

"Yes, you're allowed to be excited."

Peeta's grin looks like it'll split his face in two. He stops dead in the middle of our path and kisses me and I can feel him smiling through it. I can't help but smile back a little, despite my unease, when Peeta leans down and kisses my belly.

"So are you gonna be mad when this doesn't stay flat?" He grins up at me, one hand a little under my shirt on my stomach. I roll my eyes.

"I don't care what it _looks_ like. But expect me to be pretty pissed when I get too loud and too clumsy to hunt."

"Yeah, your tree-climbing days are numbered."

"I know," I growl. I _loathe_ the idea that it will only be a few months before I'll be physically unable to traipse through the woods like I usually do. I can nearly read Peeta's mind. He can't wait to watch me get awkward, uncoordinated, round, and slow. It will probably be hilarious on Peeta's end to watch quiet, calculating, stealthy Katniss turn into the human equivalent of a roly poly.

"I said you were allowed to be excited, not to humiliate me. We are making a rule right here, right now, that Peeta says nothing when Katniss gets too big to function normally."

Peeta doesn't stop giggling for a few minutes. I don't laugh with him, but Peeta can tell I'm not angry because I let the corners of my mouth quirk up.

"Peeta. Seriously. It'll be bad enough for me not to be able to go into the woods. I need you to help me preserve a shred of dignity, please."

He nods, although a chuckle escapes every now and then.

"I promise I won't say anything."

"Thank you."

Peeta and I meander back to the old victor's village, hand in hand, watching smoke snake up from chimneys in town. So few houses are occupied now, but District 12 is growing again, albeit slowly. I think about what District 12 will look like when this child is grown, and when their children are grown. I hope one day, one of my grandchildren, or great grandchildren, will know the District 12 I knew. Or maybe one that's even better. It makes me smile, to think about it. I look over and Peeta's smiling too. I don't know if he's thinking the same thing, or if he's just smiling because I am. It doesn't really matter. I take in the blue-green twilight, with a line of orange on the horizon the exact hue of Peeta's favorite color. I smell woodsmoke and keep watching it curl up towards the sky just like the mist does around the low, round, tree-covered mountains here in 12. I lean into Peeta, close my eyes, inhale gentle, balmy air and I feel safe. I'm home.

_**If you have any thoughts/feelings about the first chapter, review and tell me what they are! I'd love to know what you thought about it! Hope you enjoyed. :) Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer: Again, I don't own anything. It's all property of Suzanne Collins.**_

*First Trimester*

I always thought that coping with the looming threat of starvation was the single most maddening thing I've ever coped with. To know why your mother is tired, why your sister is weak, to know how to fix it, and not to have the means to do so. But this might be worse. To have food available and to be unable to keep it in your body is infuriating. I am about to come unhinged. Peeta works all day, with little success, trying to make things that my stomach won't reject. There are a few things that work. Cake, of all things. Some bread. Thankfully the cheese buns have passed the nausea test. Meat is like swallowing syrup of ipecac. I am forced to survive on starch and sugar. And I'm still getting thinner than I was before I got pregnant. I'm driving Peeta to distraction with worry. But then, Peeta is suddenly convinced that I'm made of glass and will probably behave as such until this baby is born. If he had his way, I would be confined to the house where no harm can befall me, and would only be allowed out of bed periodically. He hasn't said this as he knows better than to even mention it, but I know he's thinking it. Peeta has always been ridiculously protective of me and protective of children in general. Having the two rolled into one package is overload for him.

My days have turned into an interesting sort of monotony. They are monotonous in that the flow of events stays the same. It is the same as it has been for the last fifteen years. However, my pregnancy usually disrupts the flow just enough to make things interesting. As if the child I'm carrying, who isn't anything more than a mass of strangely-formed cells at this point, is already thinking up ways to worry and play pranks on its mother. I'm not sure if I'm hoping the child retains this personality when it's born or not.

My day starts the same way. Wake up. Throw up. Every single morning. Of course, the nausea doesn't limit itself to the morning, contrary to popular belief. It continues throughout the day. It's just the morning that's the worst. As I'm retching, feeling like I'll throw up half of my vital organs, Peeta appears. I think the sound wakes him up. As much as I roll my eyes over how hard Peeta worries about me, having him appear beside me every morning helps. He makes sure my braid hasn't fallen over my shoulder, ensures that no stray wisps of hair get too close to my mouth. One of his hands is always on my back, rubbing gentle circles, easing some of the tension that builds up from my continuous gagging. Peeta always has comforting words, too. Sometimes they're sleepy, kind, and quiet. Sometimes they're funny. Sometimes they're bright and encouraging. Sometimes they just acknowledge that this sucks. Anything he says is always the right thing for the moment. Peeta hasn't lost his way with words.

When I'm done vomiting, Peeta guides me backwards into his lap. There's always a little cup with water and mint in it for me to wash my mouth out with. Then I'm handed a cool, damp cloth and I run it over my face, which is always burning from the exertion my body has put me through. He slowly, gingerly helps me up from the bathroom floor, and holds me steady when I get a little dizzy. I'm led downstairs where I'm given a spoonful of a dark brown syrup, a home remedy for nausea that families in District 12 and District 11 have used for centuries. I was told by my mother when I was very young that it has been around since before the Dark Days. She said people used to drink it by the barrel, putting it in water just because they thought it tasted good. Another sign that people back then obviously didn't care what happened to generations after them. So wasteful. But they were right about one thing; the stuff does taste wonderful. And it helps a little bit.

Then there's breakfast. It is always something Peeta baked the night before. Usually bread, but sometimes there's cake. If only I had known that I would be relegated to eating cake for breakfast. I'm sure my five-year-old self would see it as a dream come true. But it usually sits and if it helps me put on weight instead of losing it, it'll do. Next, we see if breakfast is going right back up into the kitchen sink. If so, Peeta does the same comforting things he's just done in the bathroom. If not, Peeta eyes me warily until I smile a little at him and he grins back, relieved that I'm not vomiting. Then he writes whatever is the breakfast item of the day on a little note pad, making a list of things that agree with me. It's not very long, but Peeta's determined to make sure I stop getting thinner and thinner.

After breakfast, whether I've kept anything down or not, I slip on my hunting boots and my father's jacket and I'm off to the woods. This worries Peeta. He is convinced that something will go wrong when I'm in the woods and he won't know where to find me. I usually mention that nothing's happened to me out there in the last fifteen years. Why now? He never replies, but I know what he's thinking. I'm weaker than I was just a few weeks ago. Something _could_ happen. But I can't not go. The woods have always been my home. I want to be there as long as possible before I can't physically get under the fence anymore. Peeta also knows this, so he protests relatively little. I go every day. Most of my time isn't spent hunting. I can't eat meat without throwing it up, Peeta doesn't eat much of it, and there aren't all that many people who live here now to trade with. I just have to be out here – in the grass, in a tree, by my lake. Sometimes I think. Sometimes I don't think. But here I am comfortable and here I stay at least half of the entire day. Sometimes more.

In the last few hours, I hunt, stuff everything in my ancient game bag, and swing by town on my way home. Few people live here, but the few who do I know very well. I'm really the only one who still hunts in the woods outside the district. Things do come in from other districts with more frequency now. Before, it was nearly unheard of. But still, tiny District 12 continues to be a bit neglected and my hunting still makes a decent profit. That, plus Peeta's baking, keeps us going. With so few in the district, resources are allocated fairly evenly and everyone gets along just fine. Everyone gives me the same warm welcome, but a few comment on how thin I am.

"Katniss, looking a little light lately. Tell Peeta to feed you more," says one, accompanied with a good-natured chuckle.

"You look a touch unwell. Are you alright?" says another, a little more concerned.

I tell all of them that I'm just fine. I'm not sure why, but I don't want to tell anyone what's going on. Not yet, at least. I am exasperated by the time I get to my last customer, Sage, a woman who moved here from District 6 a few years ago. District 6 still produces medicine for Panem, but they're also allowed to train doctors now. About seven years ago, a huge diaspora of trained medical personnel spider-webbed out from District 6, making a pretty good business of providing medical care to districts that had previously been made to rely on primitive home remedies. Sage was the only one who thought to come to District 12. I often wonder if Prim would've ended up like her, a trained doctor, schooled in some faraway district and sent out to work in places like District 12 who need doctors so badly. We would've had someone here if my mother hadn't moved out to District 4. But I like Sage, and she gives a good price for various plants she needs that I find out in the woods. Sage opens the door and immediately purses her lips, grabs my wrist, and drags me inside.

"Get up here," she demands, putting me on a little scale. Everything happens too quickly for me to protest. She balances the weights on the scale and writes down a number. Then she hands me a bottle full of little capsules.

"You're losing too much protein and you're too thin. Take these. And I'd better see you in a week, or I'm coming to find you."

"What-" I start to get a little miffed. Being told off by someone ten years younger than me is hard to swallow.

She rolls her eyes. "Just do it. And if you don't, I'll tell Peeta to make you. Now, what've you got in there?" She gestures to my bag. I forgot that while Sage does have Prim's healing hands, she's got a personality closer to that of Johanna than my sister.

I grit my teeth and open up my bag. Sage and I haven't interacted much over the years besides trading game and plants. But I have a feeling that she's not going to leave me alone now that she's concluded I'm too thin.

Sage ends up with a few bushels of herbs and two rabbits. She insists that the capsules are a gift, one she expects me to put to good use. I grudgingly accept them and stalk off towards home.

The next week proceeds in the same fashion. The capsules do not cure the nausea, although Sage didn't even tell me exactly what they were for. I don't seem to gain any weight either. Maybe they're giving me the protein she said I was losing. I'm not sure. Peeta has given up experimenting to try and find food that will not make me sick. Instead, he only gives me things that are on the list of previously approved foods. I still can't keep some of them down. I hate watching him look so helpless. He wants so badly to make me feel better and he can't. I try to smile at him a lot this week so, if anything, he knows that I know he's trying and that I appreciate him for it.

I don't go see Sage the next week. I still do not want people to know, although I think I have worked out why. I know that pregnancy is delicate this early. I know that mine seems to be giving me a lot of trouble. I don't want to see the pitying looks around here if something happens. Peeta and I already get enough of them. I'll have enough trouble consoling Peeta if it goes that way. I don't need anything else.

Sage does not come find me like she threatened. Things stay blessedly the same. Stagnant, almost. I have forgotten about her two weeks later. I'm more concerned about Peeta now. My illness seems to be affecting him as much if not more than it is me. I am troubled as I walk towards the woods, hoping its greenery and air and open space will help me think of a way to help Peeta. I am absorbed enough that I barely hear the movement beside me. I turn quickly and find Sage appearing from behind a tree on the edge of the meadow in front of the fence. Sage did come find me, as promised. Just a week late.

"Yes?" I ask, unceremoniously. If it sounds rude, I don't care. I have enough going on without the young doctor trailing me.

Sage frowns and looks me up and down.

"They're not working. Unless you haven't been taking them."

I growl. "I am. What are they supposed to do anyway?"

"Protein supplement. But you're even losing muscle mass, so they're not working. You can't keep them down, can you?"

I grudgingly shake my head.

"How many weeks are you?"

My mouth is instantly dry.

"What do you mean?"

Sage looks at me, deadpanned.

"You know what I mean. Answer the question. How many weeks pregnant are you?"

I relent under Sage's unamused gaze.

"Um. I didn't count, but I think seven or eight?"

"Okay. And why have you not come to see me?"

I know I sound highly annoyed when I answer.

"I didn't really want anyone to know about it. Just in case..."

"Understandable. But your being this weak and sick is a recipe for that kind of thing to happen. And if you're worried about Peeta, which it looks like you are, you're not helping him by not seeking help yourself."

"Okay, fine! Help me. What are you going to do?"

"Well, for one, I'm going to let you go into the woods because you're comfortable there and I need you to rest a little. While you're out there, I'm going to see Peeta and tell him what you need to be eating. We should have you feeling better in a couple of days."

With that, Sage turns on her heel and strides off in the direction of my house in the victor's village.

I don't stay in the woods for too long. Long enough to rest a little like Sage told me to. But I am ridiculously curious as to what Sage is telling Peeta to do with me, so I head back home with absolutely nothing in my game bag and no detours into town. When I walk into the kitchen, Sage and Peeta are sitting at the table. Peeta has his notepad out and he's writing furiously, like an overachieving grade school student. He is impossibly eager and hopeful. He perks up when he notices me.

"Katniss! Sage says she thinks she knows how to help you keep things down! I don't know why we didn't ask her before-"

"I heard," I roll my eyes, interrupting. There are few things I dislike more than being fussed over. So, of course, I decided to marry Peeta. The fussing never ceases. He's lucky I love him. I'd kill him otherwise.

"Oh. How?" Peeta asks.

"I got cornered before I made it to the woods and was told that you two would be teaming up against me."

"Sorry," Peeta apologizes to Sage for me. "She doesn't always like being taken care of. She doesn't mean it, I promise."

"Yes I do."

Peeta just laughs a little.

"You're a brave man, Peeta, letting that one get pregnant. The hormones are only going to get stronger. Just remember, duck and cover."

"No, if she decides to go after me, I'm gone. Her aim's too good. My only defense is camouflage."

"Better paint like the wind, _sweetheart_," I snap.

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry." Peeta quickly puts his hands in view, palms up, surrendering. I scowl and plop down in a chair, arms crossed.

"Don't worry, she'll be in a better mood when she can keep some food down. She's hormonal _and_ hungry. I probably wouldn't cope half as well."

"Are you going to stop talking about me like I'm not here?"

"No, because we're done anyway. Peeta's got instructions on what to do. I'll be around here next week since I can't seem to trust you to keep your word. And come find me if anything else crops up."

"I will," Peeta answers for me. Sage nods once and is out the door.

"Are you really mad at me?" Peeta always has to make sure that he hasn't actually upset me. I make a mental note to do more of that for him.

"No. I'm just generally annoyed."

"Okay. Well, I'm going to cook you something. Sage says you should be able to keep it down. And she says that you should take this too."

He slides more capsules my way. District 6 doctors are trained more in high-tech Capitol-esque medicine than anything else. I grudgingly take one.

Peeta has something in front of me in record time. It doesn't smell objectionable. I take a hesitating bite. Then another. I eat the entire thing. I do indeed keep it down.

"What's in it?"

"Ginger and something else she gave me. I never knew ginger was a natural nausea suppressant."

Somewhere in a vague memory, I think I remember my mother saying that.

"But it's alright? You don't feel sick?"

"Not really. I don't feel normal still, but I don't think I'm going to throw it up."

Peeta sighs and rubs his face with one of his hands.

"Thank god. Katniss, you had me really worried. I was scared something would happen. You weren't eating _anything_ and you looked so sick. I mean, you still look really weak, but at least you ate something substantial."

"I didn't want to scare you," I mutter. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. I'm just glad this seems to work."

"Let's hope it keeps working."

"Yes," Peeta nods vehemently.

I rarely say things like what I tell Peeta right now. But he seems so relieved, and still so worried.

"Peeta, please don't worry about me. I don't like seeing you get so upset. I'll be alright."

Peeta looks at the table for a moment.

"Promise?"

"Of course."

Peeta nods, obviously still shaken up. He sleeps especially close to me that night, huddled around me as if trying to protect me from an invisible assailant. He wakes sometime during the night and looks around wildly, trying to find me. I can tell he's seeing other things right now, some of the few phantom hallucinations he still has. I put both hands on either side of his flushed face.

"Peeta. _Peeta_."

"Katniss? Where are you?"

"Right here. I'm right here. Do you see me?"

"No."

"That's alright. I'm fine, I'm right here. Just breathe for a minute."

"But, they're trying to take you! They'll-"

"Shh, Peeta, no one is going to take me anywhere."

"But-"

"Peeta, when have you ever seen anyone make me do something I didn't want to do? Truly."

All I hear from Peeta is quick breath for a moment. Then he nods.

"That is true."

I can't help but chuckle a little. "Too true."

Peeta nods, eyes still a little wild. After a moment, they clear a bit.

"Wait, I can see you now."

"Good. Then you know I'm here and I'm fine."

"Yes. That was just a nightmare. Real or not real?"

"Real. Honestly, you're so good at this now you hardly need to ask me. It's real most of the time you ask," I smile softly at him. I push a few sweaty, blond curls back from his forehead.

"I want to make sure, though."

"Which is fine with me."

Peeta just sits and calms down for a moment.

"Alright, I'm okay now."

"Good. Do you think you can sleep?"

He nods. "Yeah, I think I'm alright."

Peeta reclines and puts his arm across the pillow. I settle myself in the crook of his arm, pressed up against his chest. I let him play with my braid until he falls asleep. I follow soon after.

The next day is considerably better. I'm still a little sick in the morning, but breakfast stays down just fine. After his scare last night, Peeta seems to be feeling better about everything. He is even relatively unconcerned when I go out into the woods.

I am feeling well enough today to be able to think about all this. Being pregnant. It's strange to me. I suppose I spent too many years trying to avoid even thinking about it that I don't know what to think now that I'm here. Today I am not panicking, or hungry, or nauseous. Today I am able to wonder about how I feel about things. I sit by my lake, wanting to feel some ghost my father's presence. As if that echo of him will tell me how I should deal with this. I wonder if my father was scared to have children. If he was perpetually terrified of losing us. I'm not sure. All I know is that he loved us with everything he had.

"Maybe that's all I have to do," I mumble aloud. I am so scared of loving this child because I'm afraid that I'll lose it. But now I think that maybe the alternative is worse. The child exists now. No going back on that. Now that it exists, I can choose to keep my distance from it to preserve myself, or love it. I think it would be a great injustice to distance myself from this child because I'm afraid. It would make what started as an unselfish act become a selfish one. I suppose I'll have to let go and love this child. To do otherwise would be cruel.

"Well, I guess we're stuck with each other, come hell or high water," I say to my stomach. I feel a little silly. But I also feel as though I've been ignoring the fact that there is a life in there. I feel the need to address it.

I sit for a while, propped up on my elbows, just staring into shallow, muddy water. I watch a little group of tadpoles dart around the shallows where I sit, swimming furiously with tiny, half-formed legs. I laugh just a little at how delicate, uncoordinated, and strange they seem.

"But I guess you don't look a whole lot different right now, do you?" I direct at my stomach. I resolve to find something to call this child so I can stop referring to the poor thing as "it," "you," or "they."

I hunt just enough today to keep suspicion down in town. Although, all I really feel like doing is walking around and enjoying the strangely good day. People notice that I'm feeling better. I'm nearly smiling when I make it back home. I'm early enough that Peeta isn't in. Sometimes he goes out to get things while I'm off in the woods. Flour, icing sugar, paints, brushes. I inspect a painting that he's been working on in another room. I think this room was supposed to be meant as a formal dining room, but Peeta and I eat in the kitchen, so we turned it into something of a studio for him. I'm happy to see that the painting of the day is a happy one. Some days he paints the Games. Sometimes his tracker jacker hallucinations. Often he paints me. It is no exception today. The scene is a little mundane, but as always, Peeta breathes life into it. It's me at the kitchen table just this morning, looking a little thinner, a bit more gaunt than usual. But I look happy. I look relieved. It's a hopeful little piece. I look around the room, wondering how long Peeta will be. I notice a bit of red paint on the drop cloth on the floor. It's still wet, so he must not have left too long ago. It's not until another drop joins it that I realize it's not paint. It's blood.

_**I know you all hate me for the cliffhanger, haha. I promise I'll have the next chapter up fairly soon. :) Also, a little note about Sage and District 6. I know that District 6's export is technically transportation, but there are clues in the books that they also dabble in producing medicines. I just sorta took that and creatively ran with it. Figured I'd explain what could be interpreted as a discrepancy. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! I'd love it if you'd leave me your thoughts about the chapter in a review! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer: Again, I own nothing. It all belongs to Suzanne Collins**_

Fear crawls out of my belly, seizing my heart, drying my mouth, sending a cold sweat down me. I race up to the bathroom, yanking my boots off, running out of my hunting pants. There's blood on them. I stand between the bedroom and the bathroom, panicking, trying furiously through hyperventilation to remember what my mother used to do in this situation. What she did when young, sobbing, bleeding mothers came to her door, wondering if she could do anything. Sometimes she could help. Sometimes not. I think I remember her lying them down on the kitchen table like she did all of her patients. Except they had to stay there. I think I remember her telling them not to move, to stay lying down. Instinct tells me that's the best I can do. Do everything I can to prevent jarring my body into further action. I yank a towel from the bathroom and lay myself gingerly down on the bed. I'm afraid to move any more. Not even to go get the phone. Besides, no one in town has one. Only the victors village and the mayor's house before it burnt down were ever equipped with them. I have no choice but to wait here until Peeta gets back. Then I will send him down to get Sage, bring her back up here. I have no choice but to wait and grapple with the fear. I sit here for an hour, an hour and a half. I wonder why every good thing that ever comes into my life must invariably be threatened. I wonder if I did something wrong. I wonder how I will deal with Peeta. What in the world will I do with Peeta? I am inconsolable with fear and the threat of loss by the time I hear the front door open.

"Peeta," I croak. I can hardly speak, I am sobbing and choking and hiccuping so hard.

"Katniss?" I hear Peeta call from downstairs. I know he didn't hear me. He must've seen my bag. I thank god that Peeta's perceptive and wait for him to find me.

"Katniss?" His voice is more urgent upon seeing my boots on the stairs. I never leave my shoes hither and thither like that. I can't even reply. I hear his gasp as he rounds the corner and sees me. Me huddled on the bed, feet pressed on the headboard, curled over on my side protecting my stomach, sobbing to the point of choking, with a blood-soaked towel between my legs.

"Peeta, go get Sage. Quick."

I hear no reply. I look behind me and Peeta's hand is digging into the doorframe. His eyes are clenched shut.

"Peeta? Peeta, listen to me, you have to go get Sage."

He shakes his head back and forth as if trying to clear it. He opens his eyes very slowly, seeming confused. Why is he standing there? Why has he not already run out the door?

I reach out to him. Maybe if I can just take his hand or something, he'll realize what's going on. But I stop short when I see his eyes clench shut again. I look at my hand, sticky and dark crimson with a light covering of my own blood. I realize. Right now, I look like everything Peeta fears rolled into one. I look like someone has hurt me, how I'm sobbing and just lying here huddled over. But I realize, with the blood on my hands, I probably look just like one of his hallucinations. The early ones, where I was a muttation, where I was a tool for the Capitol to use against him. I don't think he's connected me with that for a long time. But I realize I've just forced his brain to make the connection. So I have to get him to realize what's happening, get him back out the door, and do it without his becoming violent. I swallow some of my sobbing. I have to be clear and calm with Peeta if I want this to work. I need it to work and I need it to work quickly.

"Peeta, what are you seeing right now?"

Peeta shakes his head wildly. "A lot of things."

"Okay, what do you think is going on?"

"I don't know. I don't know if someone hurt you, or if you really are a mutt and hurt someone else. I don't know."

"Do you trust me to tell you the truth?"

"Maybe. I think so."

"Okay. Well, I'm not a mutt, Peeta. I didn't hurt anyone-"

"How do I know?"

"You've lived with me for fifteen years now, Peeta. Have I ever hurt anyone in that time?"

"No."

"Do you think a mutt would be able to live with someone for fifteen years and not hurt them?"

"...no, I guess not. So someone hurt you?"

"No, not real. No one hurt me."

"But, the blood-"

"Peeta, I'm pregnant, remember? Do you remember that?"

Peeta doesn't answer for a moment. I'm about to ask again when he finally does.

"Yes."

"Okay, well something's wrong. That's where all the blood is coming from, Peeta. No one did this. It's just happening. That's why I asked you to go get Sage. She might know of a way to stop it, okay? If you don't go, I'm probably going to lose this baby."

This jars Peeta.

"Lose it? You're losing the baby?"

"I don't know, Peeta, I might be."

"That's why the blood's there."

"Yes. And if I bleed too much, you might lose me."

Peeta's blue eyes widen. He shakes his head.

"No. I'll go get Sage. I'm not losing you."

I breathe a sigh of partial relief. I've gotten Peeta back to normal.

"Thank you. Just go as quickly as you can."

But I'm speaking to an empty room. Peeta's already turned tail and run right back to town.

It is only a few minutes before I hear the door open again. I hear Sage's light, quick, cat-like footsteps on the stairs followed by Peeta's heavier, thundering ones. I close my eyes as a calm, cool hand presses lightly on my forehead.

"When did this start?"

Sage's voice is just as quick as normal, but it's lost its bite. It is business-like, direct, no-nonsense, but calm. Sage cares about nothing except what the problem is and how to solve it as quickly as possible.

"Almost two hours ago."

"Has the bleeding picked up significantly, or is this about the same as it was a few hours ago?"

"It's picked up a little, but not a lot, I don't think."

"Has there been any cramping or any pain at all?"

"A little."

"Were you home when this started?"

"Yes."

"Alright, so you came up here to lie down almost immediately, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you've had this towel here since?"

"Yes. I brought it from the bathroom when I came to lie down."

"Let me see it."

I drag the towel out from under me and hand it to her. I grimace. The bright white towel stained scarlet with blood makes me sick. Sage, however, seems immune. She examines the towel almost casually as if it were a stray flower or a blank piece of paper. She nods once, discarding the towel. It lands in a heap on the floor, a red and white splotched mess.

"Turn around, feet by the footboard. Peeta, will you come here, please?"

We both obey without a word. Sage is unequivocally the boss in this room right now. Neither of us is going to protest or question.

"Peeta, if you wouldn't mind stacking those pillows so she's propped up a little? Yes, that's perfect, thank you. And if you'll just stay there with Katniss. Maybe hold her hand since she's had a hard day?"

Peeta puts my cold, shaky hand between both of his warm, steady ones. I don't look at him. I'm afraid to see the look on his face.

"Katniss, feet up here. Lie back. Yes, like that."

I close my eyes and press Peeta's closed hands against my temple. I thought after being in the hospital as many times as I have that I'd be used to a certain level of invasiveness. But this is new and frightening and bloody. I hate it. It takes everything I have not to come unhinged right now. Eventually Sage pats my leg, indicating that I am allowed to take my feet off the bedposts. I do not open my eyes. I do not want to see either of their faces. I do not want to hear what Sage has to say. But Sage says it anyway.

"Well, it could be worse. You're bleeding a good bit, but you're not dilating, so that's good."

"Just tell me what that means and what's going to happen," I blurt through gritted teeth and stray tears. I don't have the patience for this.

"It means you're probably not currently miscarrying, but you could. I need to take you down to my office to make sure."

"Is it going to make things worse if I move?"

"Not at this point, no, since you're not dilated. Just don't move too vigorously and it shouldn't make anything worse than it already is."

"Is it bad?"

"I don't know yet. I need to get you down to my office now. You'll probably be there for tonight."

"Okay. Can Peeta come?"

"Of course. I'd actually rather not leave him alone. Peeta? Would you mind putting just a change of clothes into a bag for yourself and Katniss? Plus something to sleep in?"

"I'll do it now."

"Alright."

Peeta has a little bag packed in minutes. He helps me up off the bed and walks the entire way with one arm around me, as if he's afraid I'll fall apart if he lets go of me. Sage's office isn't much of an office. Her practice is very small-little more than a converted house. She lives upstairs. But she managed to bring bits of technology with her to District 12 and it's made a world of difference. District 12 had to survive on primitive medicine before.

"Just lie down here," Sage points me to a bed in the corner of the practice. There are only about ten total in here. I am the only patient in here right now. There's a machine close to my bed that makes me shiver a bit. It reminds me of the things I saw in the hospital in District 13. Unfortunately for me, that seems to be the machine Sage is after. She keeps gliding some part of the machine over my lower stomach, staring intently at a screen. She nods once.

"Well, the baby's still alive. That's good news. But you're still bleeding."

"So what does that mean? Am I alright or not?"

Sage sighs heavily.

"I don't know. Unfortunately, Katniss, we're just going to have to wait and see. That's why I wanted you here at least for the night."

"So, what are the chances that I'm not alright? What are the chances that I'm going to lose it?" I'm getting impatient. I want Sage to just tell me what all of this means and spare me everything else.

"About fifty-fifty."

I just look down at the floor for a minute. Fifty-fifty. A complete toss-up.

"Is there anything you can do to make the odds any better?"

"No. Nothing more than bed rest and even that isn't always effective. Any drug I could give you probably wouldn't change the odds. The effect would be so minimal it's not even worth it. I'll take a blood sample, but any information I get off that isn't going to come immediately. The effect will be retroactive."

"So I just have to wait."

"I'm sorry."

I don't say anything. I don't look at her. I don't cry. I can't do anything.

"Katniss?"

"I heard you."

Sage nods and seems to understand that I don't want to talk about this. I want to do what I always do and clam up.

"Well, I'll be checking back with you every hour or so. I'll be upstairs, so if something happens, send Peeta for me. If you can get some rest, do that."

Sage disappears upstairs, leaving Peeta and me alone in the long room with the beds lining the wall.

The silence is nearly too heavy to bear. I can feel Peeta's eyes on me. I don't know what to say to him. I know that if I'm scared, he's so many times more frightened. This is so important to Peeta. If it were just me, I would be terribly sad, but I would move on. It is Peeta and the knowledge that he will be irreparably heartbroken if this ends badly that makes me react as I have for the past few hours.

"Are you mad at me?"

The question feels like a punch to the stomach. Peeta has asked me that too many times over the past few weeks. I feel so guilty in this moment that I feel like the walls will crumble in around me.

"No, Peeta. Why would I be mad at you? You haven't done anything wrong."

"Because all this was my idea. And I kept pushing you about it until you said yes. You didn't want this. You did it for me. And now something's wrong and if it keeps going wrong, I might lose you."

Peeta buries his face in his hands.

"You only asked once a year. That's not pushing. And I said yes. How is it your fault if I said yes? I asked you just the other night, have you ever seen me do anything I didn't want to do?"

Peeta says nothing. He just keeps his head in his hands.

"I don't think I'm going anywhere, either. I think you're stuck with mean, snappy Katniss for a while yet."

Peeta cracks a little smile at that.

"I don't think you're mean."

"Good answer," I joke. I shiver a little bit. It's chilly in the long, sterile room. Peeta wordlessly climbs up to sit beside me on the bed. I huddle against him to try and warm up a little. I'm not sure if he's supposed to be up here, but I'm sure that I don't care. I just rest against Peeta's shoulder for a while and listen to his heartbeat. After a while, he drags out a sketchpad that he managed to stuff in our little bag before we left. I'm glad. I like watching Peeta work. I always marvel at how instinctual it seems. His hands seem to already know what to do before he starts. I love to watch images flow out of pencil and paint and frosting. I love to see what looks like a random bunch of lines, or a blob of color suddenly transform into something recognizable. I just sit and watch Peeta sketch, watch the quick, light strokes of his pencil turn into a picture. I doze off like this, gently lulled into sleep by the gentle jostling of Peeta's arm against my cheek.

Sage wakes me a few times to check on me. I don't remember much of what she says as I am half-asleep. I just keep leaning on Peeta and let her do what she needs to do. I think she takes my blood at some point. I remember a little, sharp pain in the bend of my elbow, so she must have. I don't really wake up until much later. It takes me a moment to realize what's going on. I hear voices, but not ones I recognize. Except Sage, I hear her asking questions. I open my eyes and look up at Peeta, questioning. He's still wide awake. I idly wonder if he's been staying awake purposefully to take care of me.

"Sage has another patient coming in. You can go back to sleep."

But I'm awake now. I rub my eyes a little and turn to watch what is going on. I see a flustered woman standing just two beds over explaining something to Sage. She's gesticulating wildly at the bed. When she shifts her weight to another foot, I realize there's a little girl sitting on the bed. I can't see much, but I can see that the girl is only about seven or eight. She has bright red hair that hangs in braided pigtails. Her gray eyes dart back and forth between Sage and her mother. The only snippets I catch of the conversation are the final ones.

"I'm sorry, I can't leave them alone."

"It's alright. Leave her here for tonight."

The woman, who has hair the same color as her daughter's, nods gratefully and rushes out the door. Sage sits on the bed beside the little girl, examining her arm, then her leg. I realize that the girl's pale skin has been burned. I grimace, wondering what happened. I know what burns like that feel like.

"Tell me again what happened?" Sage asks.

"Um, my aunt was at our house helping my daddy because he broke his leg..."

"Yes, I remember that. I came to your house to set his leg just a few days ago. Do you remember that?"

"Uh huh."

"Why don't you tell me what else happened?"

"Well, my aunt was cooking for us and she had a pot of hot water. And our cat ran by when she took it off the stove and he almost tripped her. The water spilled a little and I was right there and it hit my arm and my leg. Am I going to be okay?"

"You're going to be fine, sweetheart. I just need to look at this, put some medicine on it, and make sure you're not going to get an infection. That's all."

"Okay. Will the medicine make it stop hurting?"

"For a while, yes. It may hurt some in the next week or so. That's just what burns do, unfortunately. But the medicine should help."

"Okay. I have to stay here all night?"

"Yes. That's so I can make sure everything is okay, and so your aunt can still help your dad, your brother, and your little sister at home."

"Oh."

"Well, I'm going to go get you some medicine and I'm going to bring some food down here, too. You don't sound like you've gotten dinner yet, and I know they haven't." Sage gestures towards us.

The little girl nods and Sage goes back upstairs for a moment. She comes back down juggling a few plates. I smile a bit, glad for some familiarity. District 13's hospital always had strange, plastic trays with tasteless, nutritionally balanced food. Here in tiny District 12, the doctor lives upstairs, cooks herself, and brings dinner down on her own plates. She sets the first, smaller plate down on the table next to the little girl. I hear a small, treble "thank you," from that direction. Sage comes over to us with two more plates. We thank her as well and she checks on me while she's here.

"Any changes?" Peeta asks cautiously.

"Not that I can tell," Sage shakes her head grimly.

"What time is it?" I ask. I know it was still light when we got here.

"About 8:30. I'll be back in an hour, as usual."

Before Sage departs, she puts medicine on the little girl's arm and leg. I can smell the salve from here. It is the same medicine Haymitch sent me in my first games, when I burnt my leg. Sage covers the burns with light bandages and disappears once more.

I can taste ginger in what Sage has brought us. She's cooked dinner for all of us with my stomach in mind. I tell myself to remember to thank her when she comes back down. Sage may be short and terse with people, but she obviously cares. She reminds me of Johanna so much that I almost miss her. Almost. I chuckle, remembering fierce, callous, tactless, sometimes hilarious Johanna and wonder where she is right now. Peeta chuckles beside me. I look up at him, questioning. I wonder if he's making the same mental connection that I am, or if it's something else. He sees me staring at him and explains.

"She's curious."

I follow his gaze across to the girl. She is shooting us periodic glances, trying not to look like she's staring.

"Well, there's nothing else to look at. She's probably bored," I answer.

"She's probably lonely," Peeta continues. He's always more sympathetic than me. I'm going to have to learn to soften up a little if this child survives the night.

The girl looks over again. She starts, blushes, and quickly looks away when she's caught. Peeta chuckles.

"Hi. What's your name?"

Peeta always knows what to say and how to ease tension in a room, even if it's something as simple as asking someone their name.

"Hazel," she murmurs.

"Nice to meet you, Hazel. I'm-"

"Peeta Mellark," Hazel finishes. Peeta nods patiently. We are used to everyone knowing who we are. Even the children in District 12 know us, although they don't always know exactly what we did to become so famous.

"Then you probably know Katniss, too, right?" I raise myself up on my elbow to nod once at her. She nods vigorously in return.

"Yes! My daddy and my aunt tell me about you sometimes."

"I hope they're not saying bad things about us, Katniss," Peeta exclaims in mock-worry. Hazel giggles.

"No! Nice things!"

Peeta smiles.

"That's good to hear. So you're stuck here for the night like we are, then?"

"Yes. My aunt can't stay with me because has to help take care of my dad and my brother and sister."

"Oh, so the lady who came in here is your aunt?"

"Yeah. Everyone thinks she's my mom, though, since our hair's the same."

"Ah, I see. So what happened?"

"I got burned because our dumb cat ran in front of my aunt when she was holding a pot of hot water."

"Katniss had a pretty dumb cat for a while, too."

I finally say something. I don't always know how to talk to children. Hell, I don't always know how to talk to people in general. But I try to make sure they know I'm paying attention.

"Yeah, his name was Buttercup. Sometimes he was very smart. But mostly pretty dumb. He was a really, really ugly cat, too."

Hazel thinks my insulting Buttercup is very funny and she giggles about it for a minute. She unconsciously moves her burned arm and winces.

"It'll stop hurting after a while," I tell her.

"It will?"

"Sure. I had a pretty nasty burn on my leg once. I had to use that same medicine on it. It worked really well."

"Am I going to have a big scar?" she asks worriedly.

"There'll be one, but it shouldn't be that bad."

In truth, I don't know what the scar will look like. The Capitol removed all of my scars after my first games, including the one that would've developed on my leg had it been left alone. Peeta shakes his head.

"I burn myself a lot. You'll be alright. See?"

He holds up his hand. He does indeed have quite a few burn marks on his hands and down his arm. Scars he's gained since we've stopped being in and out of Capitol and District 13 hospitals. Baking for a living results in a lot of burns, even if you're careful like Peeta is. But Peeta's right. The scars aren't noticeable unless you look for them.

"Can I see?" the girl asks.

"Sure, come here."

She hops off her bed and scampers over to Peeta, who is lying on the side closest to her. I'm pressed up against the wall behind me, still huddled over on my side. Peeta extends his arm and points out a few scars.

"That's not that bad," she says before she gasps. "What happened to your leg?"

I realize that Peeta's pant leg has come up a little, and the metal of his false leg is visible. Hazel blushes and backpedals.

"I'm sorry, my daddy says I'm not supposed to ask questions like that."

Peeta chuckles.

"It's not always a good idea, no, but I don't mind. I got a really big cut in it. It bled a lot. Katniss tried to help me with it and stop the bleeding, but it took too long to get to a doctor. It was either lose the leg, or lose me. I think I got a pretty good deal, don't you?"

Hazel nods, fascinated. Peeta, of course, left out that it wasn't a cut, it was a deep stab wound. And of course, it wasn't that we couldn't get to a doctor, there was no doctor. There was just me and a scrap of my shirt twisted into a tourniquet with an arrow until the Gamemakers decided the games were over.

"Is that why you're in here now?" she asks.

"Oh no, that was a long time ago. Katniss is the one who has to stay here tonight. I came along to keep her company."

"Are you going to be okay?" she directs at me.

"I think so."

"Um, I know maybe I'm not supposed to ask, but what's wrong?"

I hesitate. If this takes a turn for the worse during the night, the whole town could know if I tell this little girl.

"I'm sorry. It's just one of my uncles asks about you sometimes in his letters."

I am also used to this. Since the entirety of Panem knows who I am, District 12 inhabitants with friends or family in other districts keep loose tabs on me. Panem wants to know that their Mockingjay is still alive and well. I idly wonder just how many brothers and sisters this girl's parents have as she looks worriedly at me. I don't know what it is that makes me relent. Whether it's that I genuinely want to tell someone, that she's just too innocently concerned, or that there's something familiar to me about her gray eyes.

"Well, I'm supposed to have a baby. But something's not quite right. I have to stay here to make sure everything is okay."

I don't go into too much detail. I don't want to scare the girl. But she nods knowingly.

"That's what happened to my mother. I was little, and my sister was a baby. That was before there was a doctor here. She died," the girl finishes quietly, sadly, and hesitantly.

I am kicking myself. I try not to scare the child and I bring up exactly what killed her mother. Hazel seems to notice that I'm upset.

"Please don't be scared! I didn't mean to scare you. There's a doctor here now, so you should be fine. I know you'll be alright. My daddy says you've always been really strong, since you were little. I hope the baby's alright, but even if it's not, you will be."

I marvel at the little girl's absolute confidence in me. I also wonder now who her father is, although many families tell stories about me regardless of how well they actually know me.

I can't really think of much to say besides, "Thank you." This seems to please Hazel, though, and she smiles brightly at me. We talk to Hazel for a little bit more. She settles herself on the bed across from us, instead of the one two over, so she can talk to us more easily. Eventually, Peeta asks her a question and gets no response. Hazel has dozed off. When Sage comes down to check on us one last time for the night, she cracks a rare smile at the little redheaded girl curled up on a different bed than she left her in.

"I'm going to leave you two to get some sleep," she tells us. "But as always, if something happens, you know where to find me."

Peeta pulls out his sketch pad again when she leaves. I watch as I always do. This time he sketches Hazel. She's giggling in the picture, freckled nose wrinkled in laughter. I doze off again watching him sketch, wondering what is so familiar about the little girl with the red pigtails.

When I wake again, it's to movement around my stomach. I've flipped over onto my back during the night. Sage has taken the liberty of running that machine over my stomach while I'm asleep.

"Good morning," she chirps.

"You could've woken me up," I grumble, unhappy to have been awoken like this.

Sage shrugs. "Why wake you up when I could do my work without you grousing at me?"

"I don't grouse."

"No, you're right. You do more than grouse. You're one of the most uncooperative patients I've ever dealt with."

"What? I do everything you tell me to!"

"And I have hell to pay for it. Well, since you're awake, scoot down here. Feet up."

"Could you at least draw the curtain?" I growl.

Sage rolls her eyes and yanks the curtain around us, drawing a thin barrier between my bed and the rest of the room.

"Never mind that one out of the only two people who could see you _if _they wake up is on the same side of the curtain as you," Sage snipes.

I grit my teeth and pretend I'm somewhere else as Sage goes about her examination. I sigh exasperatedly as the exam goes on a little long for my liking. Sage notices.

"Sigh all you want, but you're going to have to get used to this over the next eight months or so."

I am formulating a biting response when I realize what Sage has said. I sit bolt upright.

"What? You mean-"

Sage smiles a little.

"You stopped bleeding sometime last night. You're fine and baby is fine too."

I laugh I am so relieved.

"Now, hold on. You're going to have to be a little more careful. Make sure you eat what Peeta tells you to. Your little sojourns into the woods need to be a little less stressful. You may have to walk a little slower, do less running and tree-climbing. But if you do that, you should be alright. Of course, if something happens again, do exactly what you did before and send Peeta for me."

I nod. "I will. Thank you."

"You're very welcome. Wake up Peeta and get dressed. You're free to go."

Sage slips out of our little curtained space. I dress with lightning speed. Once I'm dressed, I shake Peeta.

"Peeta. Peeta, wake up,"

He blinks a few times at me.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Sage says I can go."

"What?"

"Everything is fine. I'm fine. The baby's fine."

It takes it a moment to sink in. But when it does, he stands and latches onto my neck, clutching me for I don't know how long. I just stand there with him and listen to him sniffle. I figured there'd be tears. Poor Peeta. If I've had a hard twenty-four hours, then his have been unbearable. But it's alright now, and I tell him so. He nods against my shoulder and lets me go, smiling widely as he does. He kisses me then, still smiling. I'm smiling too by the time he pulls back.

"Come on, let's get the hell out of here and go home."

He chuckles at me and nods. We almost have our little bag packed when Sage ducks around our little curtain.

"Sorry to bother you, but someone is very concerned about whether you're alright, Katniss."

I look and see Hazel peeking out from behind Sage.

"It's alright," Peeta smiles. Sage goes ahead and pulls the curtain back, opening up the room once more. Hazel darts towards me.

"My aunt is here to take me home, but I told her I had to ask you if you're alright first."

"I'm just fine. You were right."

She grins at me before pausing.

"Does that mean your baby's okay too?"

"Yes. Everyone is okay."

"Good. I can tell my uncle that when he asks. I have to go home now, but I'm glad everything is okay."

"Me too."

Hazel has run off before I can say anything else. Sage shakes her head.

"Wild child. That girl never stops moving. Just like her whole family."

"Really?"

"Mmhmm. I don't know if you know her father. Rory Hawthorne?"

I stop dead in my tracks.

"That's Rory Hawthorne's daughter?"

"Yes. So you know him?"

I ignore her question.

"And who is her aunt?"

"Posy Hawthorne. The redhead you saw in here last night."

Posy. Last time I saw her she was five. I realize she must be twenty now. I had no idea that the rest of the family had moved back to District 12. I haven't been in contact with any of the Hawthornes since Prim died. It is with that thought that I suddenly realize who the uncle is that Hazel kept mentioning. I can feel my eyes widen.

"Are you alright?" Peeta asks quietly. He knows exactly what's going through my head right now. Every painful connection that I will never be able to shake. I suppose that the Hawthornes realize that as well. Maybe that's why I was never told that they had moved back to twelve. They know as well as Peeta that I will never stop wondering if it was Gale's bomb that killed Prim. But it is a perverse pleasure to see a member of the Hawthorne family again. To know that Gale asks about me, even though I'm still, after fifteen years, so angry at him and so hurt I could scream. He probably even shares the sentiment. I have to laugh or I know I'll cry.

"Katniss? Are you alright?" Peeta reiterates warily.

I shake my head. "I don't really know. Ask me again later?"

Peeta nods once. We thank Sage again and walk out of her practice into a warm day. Peeta walks again with an arm around me, refusing to let go. I'm glad for it. I don't say much. At one point I laugh that bitter laugh again. Peeta looks sadly at me.

"I'm sorry."

There is so much in those two words. Sorry that I lost my sister. Sorry that I lost my best friend. Sorry that he can't give me what I lost with those two. Sorry that I almost lost this baby. Sorry that all that loss makes me scared to be happy again. But he's here. Sweet, gentle, loyal Peeta is here and will be until the day he dies. Peeta will stay with me always. That's why I love him. In a rare gesture, I tell him so.

"I'm sorry, too. But you're here and I love you, so it's alright."

Peeta smiles his sunny smile.

"I'm glad."

Instead of going home, Peeta and I duck under the fence and venture into the woods. Peeta sits down with his sketch pad and I sit with him. And it is here in my woods, leaning against Peeta as he sketches, watching the sun play across his hair and eyelashes that I am, if only for a moment, truly happy.

_**Hope you all enjoyed! I didn't make it a cliffhanger this time, haha. Do pop by and leave a review to tell me what you thought! Thanks to all who reviewed last time as well! Until next time! **_

_**~Belmione**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Suzanne Collins owns all the things.**_

*Second Trimester*

Today, for the first time in a month and a half, I feel normal. Peeta is beside himself he is so relieved. No stray bouts of nausea, no fear, no bleeding, no worrying. I don't expect it to stick around. I've become grimly used to feeling my worst. I'm pleasantly surprised when the rest of my week continues in the same fashion. I can eat normally, move normally. The only indication that anything is abnormal is a nearly unnoticeable tightness in all of my clothes. I choose to ignore that for now.

For Peeta, this is all wonderful. Because I am no longer unwell, he feels that he is allowed to be excited now. I don't temper his excitement. I don't share it, but I indulge him as much as possible. Plus, he doesn't rope me into it all that much. He just hums while he works now, and I notice brighter colors in his paintings and on his cakes. He does lean over the table to kiss me a little more often, but I don't mind it. Sometimes it even makes me smile.

For Peeta, this is wonderful. For me, this normality marks a bit of a race against the clock. Before, I was too ill to think about much more than powering through my day. Now that I can think clearly, I am already dreading the day that I will become housebound. I know it will happen. Right now, I can still run, can still wriggle under the fence, can still climb. For most, the temporary loss of these things wouldn't be unbearable. For me, it will be. I even put time in the woods as part of my list of requests when I agreed to be the Mockingjay. It is of utmost importance. I chafe if I can't be outside. So I spend longer in the woods these days, trying to make up for the weeks I won't be able to be here. The woods helped heal me after the war ended. They continue to. I can only hope that being taken away from them won't work in reverse.

But I can feel the clock working against me. The tightness in my clothes that was once unnoticeable is uncomfortably apparent two weeks later. Three and a half weeks later, I have to start wearing Peeta's shirts. They're quite loose now, but I know eventually even these will be too tight. I'll have to get new clothes, or just wear the few old dresses I have of my mother's. The ones she wore when she carried me, and then Prim. I don't know whether it will be worse to have to go into town to buy bigger clothes, or to have to wear a dress. I decide I'll think about that later.

A week after that, I start eating. I don't stop. At first, I don't really notice it. It isn't until the day I catch Peeta staring at me, wide-eyed that I notice anything abnormal. I realize that Peeta put down a plate of pastries only ten minutes ago and I've gone through every last one of them. If Peeta hadn't started staring, I would have no idea that I'd just inhaled a heaping plate of food. I've never had a weak appetite, but I realize that anyone putting away that much food that quickly is impressive, even in District 12 where starvation used to be common. Peeta blinks at me a few times.

"Peeta, it would be hazardous to your health to keep staring at me."

He starts and looks away quickly.

"I'm sorry. There's more in the oven if-"

"Don't finish that sentence."

I would feel bad about my snappishness if Peeta didn't start giggling. I refuse to humor him and I stalk off upstairs to throw on my hunting boots. I know why he thinks this is hilarious. This is the first very pregnant thing I've done. Besides vomiting, anyway, which scared the living daylights out of Peeta. When I come back downstairs, there is indeed another plate of the things sitting in the middle of the table.

"I'm sorry I stared. You can have more if you-"

"Peeta, that whole plate will be on your head if you finish that sentence."

Peeta sucks in his laughter for a moment to preserve himself.

"Yes ma'am."

He turns around to keep working. I take advantage of the lapse in giggles and his turned back to snatch one more and then I'm out the door like lightning.

The trees are now a patchwork of bright oranges, vibrant reds, and soft yellows. I'm glad that if I'm trying to spend as much time as possible in the woods, that I get to do so in autumn. There's something different about the air and the light in autumn. It smells different, looks different. Different than any other season. It's my favorite. Maybe it's because I'm glad that cool, blustery days replace the humid, hot ones of summer. Maybe it's because I swear I can smell the woods more keenly at this time of year. Maybe it's the colors. Maybe it's the way the leaves rustle more. Whatever the case, my outlook always improves as soon as I hear my feet crunch in the dead leaves on the forest floor.

I'm immediately up in a tree, settled in a sort of cradle created by three large, strong branches. I'm still peeved somewhat with Peeta, but mostly peeved with the situation in general. I decide here that I don't particularly like being pregnant, even on days where I'm feeling alright. People treat me differently. Like I'm weaker. I know that, physically, I am somewhat. But I dislike being babied. I'm tired of being watched, tired of Peeta waiting for me to do "pregnant" things that he thinks are cute. For now it's only Peeta. Eventually everyone will be doing it. I have never been thought of as cute before this point and I don't intend to start now.

"I'm sure you're wonderful and I'm sure I'll like you, but I wish you didn't require staying in there quite so long," I huff at my stomach. It's true. I don't dislike the idea of having a child. I just wish I didn't have to suffer everyone else's reactions to my pregnancy for so long.

"I wish you didn't eat so much, too. Your daddy is never going to let me live this down."

I keep staring at my stomach. It's not large enough yet that other people can see. They just think that I've gained a bit of weight and are quite pleased to see my face looking a little rounder. But I can see the little bump around my lower stomach. For the first time I wonder what it will be like for this child to have me as a mother. It is the first time I worry at all about my parenting skills. I know Peeta will be a perfect parent. But I am not so sure about myself. I am quiet, strange, hard to understand, a little harsh sometimes. I hope that it won't be difficult for my children to get close with me. I know it's difficult for everyone else, but I hope that my children will feel differently. I am not naturally a nurturing person. I am absolutely naturally protective, but not nurturing, or patient, or soft. All I can hope is that Peeta will make up for what I lack in parenting skills and that I'll still be good for something at the end of the day. I shake my head.

"Sorry, but insofar as mothers go, you got the short straw, kid," I tell my stomach. Again, I have got to find something to call this child. I'm not looking for a real name. Just a nickname. Something beyond, "you," "it," and "kid," to use until the child is born and we can properly name it. I glance over to my left and can just barely see the edge of my lake through the brush. The thought reminds me of something. I laugh out loud.

"Tadpole," I smile. Wasn't I just saying a few weeks ago, sitting by the lake, that the child probably looks a little like a tadpole right now? I laugh again to myself. It's odd, but it fits. Plus, I know Peeta will probably find it a little distasteful, which makes it much more fun. I settle further into my tree, satisfied. Sooner than I'd like, I have to head back home. I'd never admit it to Peeta, but I'm hungry again. Of course, I could easily get something out here. But Peeta's baking is too alluring and I'm back under the fence before I know it. As always, I stop by town on my way. People are starting to look at me a little longer than usual, frowning very lightly. It must be the combination of my now-round face and my small arms swimming in Peeta's shirt. In the next two weeks, they'll start asking questions. When I stop by Sage's, she pulls me in to take a closer look at me and make sure everything is normal. I get a satisfied smirk from her. Apparently I'm up to par. Sage has made a habit of doing this. Every week or so, she drags me in to check up on me quickly. The day is unpredictable. Some days she lets me go. Some days, I get sucked in. But I know she means well, so I protest relatively little.

By the time I get home, Peeta is peeking in the oven, checking on some dish he's concocted. At this point, I can't find it within myself to care whether he giggles at me or not. I am ravenous. But Peeta seems to be over his giggle fit for now. He just smiles at me warmly. I eat as impressively now as I did this morning. I have an uneasy feeling that this prodigious appetite is going to stick around for a while. But as long as Peeta doesn't bug me about it, I should be alright.

That night I sit at the table with Peeta and watch him work on an order. It's one of my favorite things to do. It's a wedding cake. I don't know the couple well, although I know who they are and I know their names. Sometimes Peeta lets me help him make decisions about the cakes he designs. Tonight, he lets me pick what flavorings go in the cake since the couple in question don't have a preference. Peeta always makes little samples and gets me to taste them. The one I pick tastes like autumn. Cinnamon, pecans, and what I think may be a little bit of pumpkin, iced ivory with creamy icing. Peeta nods and smiles softly. "I thought you might pick that one."

I watch him mixing batter in a massive bowl. Watch as he pours it into circular pans, each one smaller than the next, to make tiers for the cake. Each time, he pours half a pan in, sprinkles in a streusel made of sugar, cinnamon, and pecans, and fills it up the rest of the way. He won't let me finish off what's left of the batter, though, as it has raw eggs in it and he's terrified that I'll get sick. I get impatient. "You always let me do it before. Why not now?"

He rolls his eyes in a very rare gesture and answers, "Katniss, you weren't pregnant before. Be patient, there'll be other things to taste. I'll let you take care of the icing bowl later, if you want."

I cross my arms and huff at him. He cracks a smile and I scowl more darkly. Peeta is unfazed and I soon let my false scowl dissolve into a smile as I watch Peeta keep working. He takes the tiers out of the oven, sets them on the counter in neat rows to let them cool. I smell the pumpkin and am already about to go mad. I hear my stomach rumble. Peeta hears it too and starts the laughing again. This time I can't blame him. I finished my dinner, at most, two hours ago. This is ridiculous.

"Are you kidding me?" I throw my arms out in disbelief, looking straight at my belly. "Tadpole, this is out of control."

Peeta nearly chokes.

"What did you just call our child?"

I feel a smile creeping onto my face. I was waiting to watch this reaction.

"Tadpole. Because it looks like one right now."

Peeta wrinkles his nose.

"Please tell me you're not thinking of naming it that."

I roll my eyes.

"Of course I'm not, Peeta. It's just a nickname so I can stop calling it "it" all the time."

Peeta keeps wrinkling his nose.

"What's so bad about it?" It's my turn to start laughing now. Peeta looks so funny, standing there, back against the counter, looking mildly disgusted.

"Katniss, tadpoles are baby frogs."

"...I'm aware."

"_Frogs,_" he reiterates.

"Yes, frogs. Frogs can be cute."

"Frogs are _not_ cute."

I cannot breathe I'm laughing so hard now. Peeta is so upset over this one nickname. He pouts across the room while I laugh silently, doubled over. When I can breathe normally again, I speak.

"Well, you'll have to get used to it because I intend on using that nickname."

"You can. I'm not."

"Well, what are you going to call it, then?"

"I'm going to think of a real name for it."

"Well, good luck with that since we don't know whether it's a boy or a girl."

"I'll make it gender neutral."

But even Peeta cannot keep a straight face through this utterance. We're both laughing now, me cackling like a hyena, Peeta's giggling bubbling up in the room. I cannot remember the last time we laughed like this.

Peeta continues with his cake, his work punctuated by periodic chuckles. I watch him stack the layers of the cake on top of one another. He anchors each to the other layer with sticky icing. Once he has all the tiers stacked- there are five in all- he ices the whole thing. I like this part. I like to watch blobs of messy-looking icing turn into a smooth, ivory armor around the cake. I like to watch Peeta carefully smooth the icing with his knife, concentrating hard, eyes squinted. Next, Peeta has to let the cake sit. The icing has to harden so he can continue decorating the cake. It is cool enough outside that Peeta can just put the cake next to a window and wait on the icing. In the mean time, he starts making sugar flowers. He makes them out of some sort of malleable dough. I don't know what's in it or how he makes it, but I know it's edible, tastes good, and can be moulded to look like real flowers. The flowers he makes tonight all go with the autumn theme. Chrysanthemums, Marigolds, Zinnias, and a few shapes made to look like autumn leaves. He paints them with some kind of edible pigment, in golds and oranges and reds. They always look frighteningly real. He quickly has the whole table covered in them. He sets these by the window as well, as they also have to set. Peeta is true to his word and when he comes to sit across from me to wait on the cake, he brings the icing bowl. I manage to quash the huge grin that threatens to overtake. I am sparing at first with the icing. I don't attack it like I want to. I'm not weathering another laughing fit from Peeta. But it doesn't get past Peeta. He hasn't completely figured me out over the fifteen years we've lived with each other, but he's definitely gotten better at reading me.

"You should just eat whatever you want whenever you want to. Take advantage of it now. According to Sage, by the time you hit seven months or so, you won't be able to do that. She says that baby will be so big, you'll be hard pressed to fit a cupcake in there, let alone a whole plate of pastries."

I continue for a minute in the same fashion, ignoring him. But after a moment, I ask, "She said that? And how bad did she say it would get?"

"Yes, she said that. She said in the last three months, the baby's just going to get bigger and heavier. The bigger it gets, the harder it'll be to eat anything without feeling like it's sitting, as Sage said it, in your esophagus rather than your stomach."

Lovely. Another eating complication. I grumble unintelligibly and start scraping the bowl like I want to. Peeta smiles a bit.

"If you laugh again, I'll kill you."

He smiles wider, but is smart enough to quell his laughter.

"Noted. Just don't fill up too much on the icing."

I ignore him and scrape the bowl clean. Peeta sits with me, still waiting on the cake. After a moment he asks, "Have you actually thought about names? Real ones, not nicknames."

I huff at his jab at my nickname before answering.

"Not really. Have you?"

"Yes, but I couldn't come up with anything good."

"Well, the best I've come up with is a nickname you hate. And it's not like my parents set a good precedent either. Prim got the good name. I got the weird one."

"And I didn't? Though, I like your name."

"And I like yours. It suits you."

"Thanks. In any case, neither of us has any ideas. We should probably start thinking."

"Maybe. Even though, I'm not sure I can choose a name until I see Tadpole. Does that make sense?"

"I think so, but explain anyway."

"Well, my parents didn't name us until right after we were born. They didn't have a name in mind already. They said there was no point thinking up a lot of names because once we were born, they might find out that none of their ideas suited us. The name has to fit."

Peeta nods, digesting the thought.

"I like that. Waiting for the name."

"Me too. Let's do that. Make sure we get it right," I smile a bit. Peeta smiles back and nods.

"Yes. So we avoid names like mine."

I chuckle a bit. "Your name is fine. It's the District 1 kind of names I'm worried about."

Peeta blanches. "Ugh, yeah. No Glimmers or Cashmeres, please."

"I would actually call the child Tadpole first."

"So would I. And that's saying something."

Peeta walks over to check on the cake. He concludes that it has sit by the window for long enough and he brings it back over to the table, along with the veritable bouquet of sugar flowers he's made. This is my favorite part. I like to watch Peeta just know where to put everything, how to arrange it. If it were me, the cake would look like a jumbled mess. But Peeta knows how to make everything look appealing and effortless. The flowers crown the whole top tier of the cake and cascade down the layers. A plethora of them circle the bottom tier as well. The cake looks beautiful. Peeta comes around the table to stand behind me and look at his cake from my angle.

"Good?" he asks. I nod.

"Definitely. It's gorgeous. I like the autumn thing going on."

Peeta smiles. "Thanks. Hopefully they do, too."

"There's no way anyone wouldn't like that cake, Peeta. Or anything you make."

Peeta just grins in response. He crosses the room to start cleaning up. I sit and stare at the cake. Really, Peeta doesn't charge anything for the amount of work he puts into these things. He just likes doing it. I think if he could, he wouldn't charge anything at all. I am smiling my closed-mouth smile, looking at the cake when I hear something slide across the table in my direction. Peeta is standing across the table from me, and has slid a plate in front of me. I look down. It's a little cake, a bit larger than my hand. It fills the bread plate Peeta has placed it on. It's decorated like the bigger cake to my left. It's got three sugar flowers on the edge of it, one of each type. There's a red-orange leaf on it too, that branches out from underneath the flowers and covers the face of the cake, the vibrant orange and smooth ivory a pleasing contrast. Peeta gets a rare, wide smile from me for this.

"I told you not to fill up too much on the icing," he chuckles.

"You seriously underestimate how much Tadpole eats."

And Tadpole does as promised. I manage to eat the entire mini-cake. Peeta just nods at the empty plate.

"Well done."

"Thanks."

After a moment, I join Peeta by the sink and help him dry dishes. Peeta's dirtied a lot of them today baking and trying to keep up with my appetite. We do this in companionable silence. I'm putting away a dish and I feel my stomach flip. I curse under my breath. I've overindulged and my nausea is probably coming back. It happens again and I think I might be sick. But the third time is different. I don't mistake it for stomach trouble. I feel an upheaval inside me, like a wave, spinning once in my belly. I drop the glass I'm holding and it shatters on the floor. I back away from the counter. I am terrified and I cannot get away from the feeling because it's coming from inside me. The spinning wave keeps happening. I do not know why it frightens me, what psychological link has taken place. But I know that I am suddenly wildly and irrationally horrified. I manage to sit before the hyperventilating starts. Peeta is alarmed at seeing me react so strongly to, what seems to him, absolutely nothing. He is by my chair immediately.

"Katniss, what's wrong? Katniss? Katniss! What happened?"

I try to answer, but I can't.

"Katniss? You don't have to talk much, just tell me what's going on. What happened?"

I mumble unintelligibly.

"What?"

"It _moved_."

I start rocking back and forth.

"Katniss, it's alright. Shh, it's okay. If you need to say your monologue, do it."

That's what Peeta calls it. My monologue. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am from District 12. I was in the Hunger Games twice. I was the Mockingjay in the war against the Capitol. The Capitol is gone. My sister is also gone. She was killed by a bomb. Gale may have been the one who killed her. My mother doesn't live here anymore. District 12 was destroyed. District 12 is being built back up. I live with Peeta Mellark. I am almost five months pregnant. My baby just moved. I am terrified of it. I have almost five months to go.

_**Hope you all enjoyed! Please do leave a review and tell me your thoughts! Thanks you so much for all the lovely reviews last time! They all made my week! Until next time! **_

_**~Belmione**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer: Don't sue me, I don't own a thing. Suzanne Collins is a genius and owns all the things.**_

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am from District 12. I was in the Hunger Games twice. I was the Mockingjay in the war against the Capitol. The Capitol is gone. My sister is also gone. She was killed by a bomb. Gale may have been the one who killed her. My mother doesn't live here anymore. District 12 was destroyed. District 12 is being built back up. I live with Peeta Mellark. I am almost five months pregnant. My baby just moved. I am terrified of it. I have almost five months to go.

I have repeated this seven times already. I continue, rocking and mentally repeating my monologue. I am vaguely aware of Peeta, standing next to me, trying to be patient but obviously worried. The fluttering, wave-like sensation continues in fits and starts. I do not understand why I am so frightened. I can't begin to try to understand right now. All I can do is rock and repeat my monologue.

After I've gotten to the twelfth repetition, Peeta can't stand it any longer and speaks.

"The monologue isn't working, is it?"

"Not. Really," I force out from my clenched jaw.

"Then we have to think of something else because you've got about five months more of this."

All I can do is nod, already dreading them.

Peeta darts out of the room and returns after a moment with a very old, worn length of rope. It is the rope Finnick gave me to tie knots with. I haven't had to use it in years. I suddenly get a rush of memory, Finnick brokenly giving me advice. _Better not give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart. _ I can't fall apart. I don't have that luxury. I can't end up like my mother did- in so many pieces she couldn't even take care of us. This child isn't even born yet. I can't fall apart before the child is even born. I can't be a broken, useless parent from day one. I have to keep it together. I snatch the rope with shaking hands and start tying knots. They're clumsy and unkempt because my hands are nearly vibrating. I tie knots and repeat my monologue. After a while, I am frightened, but I feel sane again. I am no longer hyperventilating, no longer rocking in my chair. But I am not comfortable. I do not feel safe. I can only keep myself together and even that is still a struggle.

Peeta seems to notice this. He warily approaches me and puts an arm around me. It helps a little. Physical contact grounds me in moments like these. He hesitates before putting a hand over my belly. I flinch for a moment before relaxing. The weight of Peeta's hand distracts some from the fluttering inside me. I don't feel it as keenly. I let him stay there, glad for the small help. I know that eventually this will not work. When the child gets big enough and strong enough to jab me with elbows and kick me in the ribs, Peeta's hand will not be a distraction. I will let him stay and help because it won't be long before the little flutters turn into real kicking.

Soon, the fluttering stops. I hesitate for a moment before I stop tying knots. I put the rope down and Peeta looks up, withdrawing his hand.

"It stopped."

Peeta nods gratefully. He's eyeing me worriedly, shaken up by my breakdown. He's thinking the same thing I am. How am I going to survive the coming months?

"What are you going to do?" Peeta finally asks.

"What can I do?" I can't think of anything there is to do but try to work through it. I go to bed that night with the length of rope beside the bed. Peeta sleeps pressed against my back, arms around me, both hands on my belly.

I carry the rope everywhere, although Tadpole seems to move mostly in the evening. This is a blessing because my time in the woods is still uninterrupted and Peeta is usually present when the moving starts. Sometimes, though, Tadpole starts wriggling at inconvenient times. One day in the next week, Tadpole decides to start doing somersaults while I'm trading in town. I can't just collapse and start tying knots and hyperventilating when I have business to attend to. I have to grit my teeth and try to keep a straight face. One day it gets bad enough that I come out and ask Sage about the problem rather than avoiding her and hoping she won't interfere. I tell her I need to talk to her and she ushers me right into her office, taken aback when I volunteer information rather than withhold it. I tell her about my crippling anxiety whenever Tadpole moves. I tell her about my reticence to have children in the first place. She nods, frowning lightly.

"Well, the anxiety doesn't surprise me, especially if you were somewhat reluctant to have children beforehand. Serving as the figurehead in a war at age seventeen certainly doesn't help on the anxiety front either. The movement feels invasive and foreign. All your fears play right into it. But, of course, that's beside the point. The point is to get this so you can manage it. What have you been doing already?"

"Well, I have this thing I repeat in my head. When I get confused or upset. It's just things I know are true. My name, where I live. I start with the simple things and move to the more complicated. Things like that. I do that. And I have this rope I tie knots in. Different kinds of knots. It keeps my hands busy."

"How well does it work?"

"I don't hyperventilate."

"That's still not good. But, I'm sorry Katniss, this isn't my area of expertise. I'm not sure what to tell you other than to keep tying knots. The only thing I can suggest is asking advice from people you know who were connected with the war. Is there anyone you know from the war who has had children? I'm sure they had difficulties, too. I think you'll get better advice from people who fully understand. Better than a doctor who was only six during your first games," Sage smiles a rare, sad smile. I forget sometimes that Sage has known who I am since she was six. She watched me and Peeta in our first games, in our second. I suddenly wonder what it was like to be such a young child during a bloody war, a war that no child so young has any hope of understanding. I wonder what it is like to take care of someone who was the figurehead of something terrifying that changed your world forever, turned it on its head, caused death and upheaval. I'm sure Sage saw the propos of me. And I'm sure I was terrifying to a six-year old. I'm sure I stir up frightening memories for her. I suddenly feel very guilty. Maybe that's why Sage is so short with everyone. She probably had to grow up as fast as I did when I was young.

"Katniss?" I realize that I haven't said anything. I've just been staring at Sage.

"Sorry. I'm just thinking." This time I think about what Sage has suggested. So many names run through my head. So many are dead. The ones who are still living are scattered about, made loners from the war. I am about to answer 'no,' when I remember. _Annie_. Poor, widowed, mad Annie managed to get through a pregnancy. I'm sure that it wasn't easy, especially without Finnick there to keep her grounded. We get letters from her sometimes. I think it's time she got one from me.

"Yes, there is someone. I can ask her about it."

"Good, good. Tell me what she says and if it works."

"I will."

Sage nods once. "Good luck. Keep me posted on any progress. And, as always, if anything happens-"

"I'll come find you." This time I mean it.

Sage nods, businesslike and I turn to leave. When I get home, I write my letter to Annie. She will be the first of our old friends to hear about my pregnancy. Other than the Hawthornes, of course, who I'm sure know via Hazel. I tell her how terrified I am when Tadpole moves, that I can't shake the connection between the moving inside me and strange Capitol punishments. I tell her about tying knots like Finnick taught me to, about my monologue. I ask her if she had any difficulties like mine. I ask her if she knows how to quell the terror. And of course I ask her how her son Killian is. It is encouraging to know that Annie has a son who is safe, whole, happy, already fourteen and, although I would've thought it impossible for anyone before the revolution, carefree. I know the letter will take a while to get to Annie all the way in District 4. All I can do is keep tying knots and repeating my monologue while I wait to see if she has any advice.

As if Tadpole's gymnastics weren't enough, I'm getting large enough that Peeta's shirts don't hide anything. Even in baggy clothes, there's a definite, recognizable roundness to me now. I look like someone has halved a soccer ball and stuck it on to me. People notice now. One frowns at me for a moment before her face clears. She doesn't say anything, but is obviously trying not to smile too widely. A lot of people do this- just quietly realize and go about their business with a small smile. Some, though, are more direct.

"Katniss, are you-"

I usually cut off these inquiries with a quick, "yes."

Some just give me a "congratulations," and a smirk without asking anything.

A few say things like, "About time," and, "What took you so long?"

Another chuckles, shakes his head, and says, "Never thought I'd see this."

Greasy Sae, who is positively ancient and still trucking along, just smiles, laughs a crackling, throaty laugh, and pats my belly twice. I take care of her now like she took care of me when I first got back to District 12. It is her reaction that I mind the least.

One thing is for sure. Everyone is unbearably excited that I am having a baby. Word will now start spreading slowly until it reaches the far ends of Panem. Tadpole might even be a few months old by the time it does, but word will get there. I know why everyone is so excited. I have never stopped being the Mockingjay. I will never escape it. I am still a symbol of the revolution. People take cues on how to act and how to cope from me. If I can heal, if I can find some sort of happiness, if I can have children, have a life after being through hell, so can they. I do not like this burden. But I realize now, that even if I hadn't agreed to put on Cinna's armor and appear in a few propos, I would still be the Mockingjay. I was the Mockingjay as soon as I held out that handful of berries. So I just try my best to be patient and bear it.

Seeing Sage in the midst of everyone's excitement is calming. She is as terse and business-like as usual and it's a welcome change from the hushed elation of everyone else. Today is a day that Sage drags me in to check on me. She makes me lie down beside that strange machine and runs it over my stomach again. She chuckles very quietly at one point while staring at the screen.

"What?"

She nods at the monitor. "The baby's sucking its thumb, that's all."

"...what?"

She turns the monitor so I can see it. She's never told me what she was looking at on the machine. There are fuzzy, gray shapes on the monitor. After a moment, the jumbled images come into focus and I see it. It is small, curled over, and clearly, devastatingly human. And the baby is indeed sucking its tiny thumb. I do not know what to do other than stare at the swimming screen. I am fascinated and terrified and overwhelmed. I get a rush of realization of the weight of this. This is probably the single most important, most difficult, most rewarding, and most selfless job I will ever have. It is terrifying to suddenly understand how much sheer responsibility Peeta and I are now bearing.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm just trying to process it, I guess."

"Well, you're doing better than most. Normally mothers start crying."

"That would imply that I'm normal."

"True. I can print this, you know. I bet Peeta would love to see it."

I nod. "He'll probably cry."

Sage actually, fully laughs at this.

"I'll print it, then."

She produces a small, square picture with the gray and black fuzzy image on it. I know Peeta will be beside himself when he sees it. Sage tells me I can leave. I thank her for the picture and step out of her office into early evening. The sun is hanging low in the round mountains here in twelve. I walk looking at the picture. I feel a little stupid, but I haven't thought much about the child as a living, breathing human that we'll have in our care. What it'll look like. What kind of personality it'll have. If it'll be a lot like me, or a lot like Peeta, or its own person unlike both of us. I'm also thinking a bit more practically now. We haven't done all that much preparation around our house to make way for a baby. Where is it going to sleep? What is it going to wear? We need a crib, we need clothes, blankets and bibs and diapers. I walk in the house thinking about everything we need to do in the next four and a half months. I nearly forget about the picture until Peeta asks.

"What's that?"

I realize I'm still half-staring at it, and I've walked in the house muttering to myself without acknowledging him at all. He's looking at me curiously, if not a bit warily.

"It's Tadpole," I tell him, handing the picture to him. He frowns lightly for a minute before he makes sense of the shapes. His eyes widen; then they glisten. I was right. Peeta does cry just a little bit. But he also seems about as terrified as I am.

"Oh my god."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking."

He hesitates before asking me, "Is it stupid that I didn't completely clue in until now?"

"No, I thought the same thing. I wanted to talk to you about that. We don't have anywhere for Tadpole to sleep, we don't have clothes. Peeta, we haven't done anything."

"You're right. We should work on that. We can turn any one of the rooms upstairs into a nursery."

"Yeah. Which one, though?"

"I'd say the one across from our room. So we're close. I don't like the idea of putting the baby way down the hall somewhere where we can't get to it quickly."

Peeta is thinking along the same lines I am. I don't even like the idea of Tadpole sleeping in another room from us, but the child needs its own space for when it gets a little older. But if the child has to be in another room, we want it to be within earshot of ours. I nod again.

"That'll work. We'll need to move that other furniture out, though."

All the houses in the Victor's Village came pre-furnished and pre-decorated, with an enormous amount of space and a supposed, dreamed-up purpose for each room. We have far too much space in here, even for three people. But unless we want Tadpole's nursery to look like a sitting room from the Capitol, we're going to need different furniture and a less garish color scheme.

"I can paint the room, too. I don't think that color is a good nursery color."

"I was just thinking that. What color should it be?"

"What color do you want it to be?"

"Yellow or green. But a light one. No Capitol colors."

"I like the idea of yellow. A light, sunny yellow."

"Me too."

After that night, Peeta delves into decorating Tadpole's nursery. Every day I come home, there is a new development. The day after we make the decision to paint the room, I come home, come upstairs to take off my hunting gear, and I see that Peeta has drop-cloths on the floor and is busy taping the baseboards and windows. The next day, I smell wet paint and come upstairs to see Peeta with rollers, priming the walls so the garish, Capitol purple doesn't show through. The next day, he's blanketing the walls in a buttery, baby yellow. My favorite, though, is the day I come upstairs to see Peeta painting on the largest wall in the room. I wondered why he hadn't painted that one yellow. Now I see. Peeta is busy painting this wall to look like my woods. My lake is in on one side, dense forest on the other. It looks beautifully real. He's made sure to put in highlights in the same shade of yellow as the rest of the room, so it blends perfectly. Peeta notices me after a moment.

"Is this alright? Do you like it?"

"Of course I like it. It's my woods. What made you decide to do that?"

"Well, I'll be comfortable in this room no matter what. But you'll also have to spend a lot of time in here. I know having a baby in the house is going to cut away from the time you have to spend outside. I figured this might help a little."

"It looks real."

"I wanted it to. Do you think it'll help?"

"Definitely. It's perfect. Thank you."

Peeta smiles and keeps painting. In the next few days, furniture starts appearing in the room. First, a crib made from a light, blonde-looking wood. Next, a changing table. Then a dresser. Shelving gets installed next. The day I come in and Peeta is just standing in the middle of the room, I know it's finished. The last addition has been a rocking chair. I step hesitatingly inside. The room is sunny, airy, and open. Peeta nods a few times.

"Do you think it's done?"

"Yes. I wouldn't change a thing."

I sit in the room for a while each day. I think it's becoming my favorite room in the house. I never stay too long, though. The painted woods are going to be replacing the real ones very soon. It's getting harder for me to get under the fence. I've had to dig a little curved ditch under it to accommodate my larger stomach. Peeta and Sage were right. The baby is getting bigger and heavier and I'm starting to feel it in the strain in my back. I can't climb anymore. I know my center of gravity is now thrown off enough that it would be too dangerous. I sit in the grass a lot more lately. It's getting difficult to carry my game bag around town as well. Tadpole plus all the game is a lot of added weight. Tadpole's movement is a lot stronger than it used to be, too. It gets to where I have that length of rope in my hand more often than not. The only place Tadpole doesn't wriggle now is in the woods. Maybe the child can sense the lack of tension in me. I'm not sure, but I am grateful for the calm.

The day that I am out of breath by the time I get to Sage's, she tells me I have maybe two weeks that I'll be able to keep doing this. My time is running out. I tell her snappily that I'll keep going into the woods until the day I get stuck trying to get under the fence. She rolls her eyes.

"Well, don't call me to help you get unstuck. I warned you."

I glare back at her.

In the next few days, I notice that it's starting to get quite chilly outside. Most of the leaves have now abandoned their trees and the woods look grayer, starker, spindly and bare. The next day, there's a light frost on everything. Thankfully, though, I'm a little warm most of the time now, so the cold is a welcome change. The frost even helps me slide under the fence easier. The frost is patchy, though, as the sun is still warm enough to melt it where it hits. I do sit in one of the dry, sunny patches in the grass. I realize that even sitting up with my legs extended, I can't really see my feet anymore. I sigh.

"How much bigger are you going to get?" I huff at my round stomach. I know that's not a question I really want to know the answer to. I know that if I think Tadpole is big now, I'm in for a rude awakening in the coming weeks. Tadpole's just entering the huge growth-spurt faze. I don't look like someone glued a beach ball to me yet, but I'll get there soon enough. I lie back, hands folded on my belly, and just watch the clouds for a bit and breathe blissfully crisp air. I come to later and realize I've dozed off outside. The sun is going to set fairly soon. I hope that Peeta isn't too worried and slide back under the fence. I don't have anything in my game bag since I dozed off, but game is starting to get scarce as winter approaches anyway. I suppose I can check all my traps tomorrow and they'll probably have more to show for my efforts. I'm passing under a tree when I lose my balance. There's frost under it that has accumulated enough to turn into a patch of thin, slick ice. I manage to catch myself on one of the branches and avoid hitting the ground, but not before my right ankle twists at a violently unnatural angle. I pull myself up using the tree as support. I test putting weight on the ankle. It protests wildly, sharp pain shooting straight up my leg.

I curse under my breath. I never would've lost my balance like that before. I know how to tread lightly on ice without slipping. It's my changing center of gravity that is responsible for this mishap. I can only be thankful that my reflexes haven't suffered yet and I was able to catch myself. Who knows what would've happened if I had hit the ground? But now I have to get myself home on an injured ankle, walking over ice, six months pregnant.

"Better start now," I growl to myself. I just want to get home before dark so I don't scare Peeta to death. Especially because he'll come looking for me after dark and he doesn't tread well on ice with his leg. I don't want to cause an injury on his part because I fell asleep in the woods and left late enough that ice started to accumulate on the ground. I begin my slow walk back, trying to walk close to trees, fences, sides of houses. Anything that I can lean on. I can't put weight on the ankle or I'll really fall this time. I still slip a few more times and only stay up by clutching tree branches and fence posts for dear life. I reach a particularly bad patch of ice and sit down on a tree stump half way across it to try and plan the next leg of my journey. There's a tree not too far down, and then a mailbox.

"This is so stupid," I spit.

"As if that should be anything new to you," I hear a sarcastic laugh behind me and wheel around. Of all people to show up when I need help. Haymitch, drunk as ever, is staggering around behind me on his way back home. Peeta and I don't see Haymitch all that often, though one of us does go to check on him every few weeks. Peeta's just been doing that lately because I don't trust my stomach to react well to the smell inside his house. Haymitch rounds the stump and lets out a bark of laughter.

"Jesus," he manages to choke out before the laughter continues.

"I don't see why this is funny," I snap acidly.

"I don't see you for six months and when I find you, you're talking to yourself on a tree stump, knocked up and wide as the broad side of a barn. Give me a reason I shouldn't laugh, sweetheart. I'm all ears."

"Dammit, Haymitch! I think I sprained my ankle and I've been dragging myself along this road for a half an hour!"

Haymitch laughs more, unheeded. I pick up a heavy little rock and fling it at him. It hits him square in the nose, hard enough to make him bleed a little. His hand flies to his nose and he curses.

"Do you want to put my eye out?"

"No, I want you to shut the hell up and help me!"

"Fine! What do you want me to do?"

"Just help me get back home! I can't put weight on this leg or it goes right out from under me. I've been leaning on trees and fences and mailboxes the whole way back from the woods!"

"What in the world were you doing out there as big as you are?"

"I go into the woods every day, you know that."

"And Peeta let you go like this?"

"You really think I would've listened if he told me not to?"

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "Of course not. Katniss doesn't listen to anyone, she knows what's best. And then she wonders why her plans always end like this. Again, this is why no one lets you make the plans, sweetheart."

"Do you think you're sober enough to help me back without dropping me or not? Maybe you should just go get Peeta."

"Peeta falls on ice all the time. I got you through two Hunger Games and a war, I can handle a ten minute walk."

"Yeah, and it took me almost taking your hand off with a knife for you to clue in enough to help us through the first ones."

"Just shut up and grab my arm."

I growl and drag myself up, clutching Haymitch's arm. He's a little unsteady, but I make quicker progress walking with him than I did dragging myself along with tree branches.

"So what in hell made you decide to do that?" Haymitch nods at my stomach.

"It was Peeta's idea."

"I guessed that much. Hate to break it to you, but you're not exactly the mothering type. What made you agree to it? That's what I want to know."

"I felt mean saying no to Peeta. He asked for fifteen years. I'm not nearly nice enough to him, and he wants children so badly. I couldn't say no anymore."

"You still don't deserve him. But this was a step in the right direction, I'll give you that."

"You're so generous," I snipe at him.

"So how long you got till the little bugger comes out?"

"About three more months."

"I'll pray for Peeta."

"I'm not _that_ bad!"

"Sure you aren't. You were just talking to yourself and screaming at me like a banshee. Even your aim's better right now."

"...really?"

"I shouldn't have told you that."

"Nope."

We've finally reached our house. Haymitch half-carries me up the steps and flings the door open. He stumbles towards the kitchen and plunks me down in a chair. Peeta comes running from upstairs.

"Katniss, where were you? Haymitch? What's going on?"

"Boy, do you have a death wish? What were you thinking letting her get pregnant?"

"I'm not mean to him, Haymitch, I'm mean to _you_ because you decided to laugh at me for ten minutes before you'd help me back home!"

Peeta grits his teeth.

"Haymitch, what are you doing here?"

"I'm here because you let her go out into the woods, she went and messed up her ankle, and I got stuck having to drag her pregnant ass home _after_ she screamed at me and made me bleed."

"He didn't _let_ me go into the woods, Haymitch, don't pin it on him."

"No, you're right, I should always assume that if something's gone wrong, _you're_ the one responsible and Peeta is probably oblivious to it."

"Would you both _shut up_ for a minute?"

Haymitch and I freeze at Peeta's raised voice. The last time I heard Peeta get angry like this with us was in District 11 during our victory tour when we hadn't told him about President Snow's threat. He stands there, eyes closed, hand pressed to his forehead as if trying to dispel a headache. Haymitch and I say absolutely nothing. After a moment Peeta opens his eyes slowly and sighs. He looks at me.

"What happened? Explain without the arguing, please," his eyes dart to Haymitch at that last part.

"I fell asleep outside and left the woods late. I was on my way home and I slipped on some ice. I didn't fall, but I did something to my ankle. I can't walk on it. I had to walk leaning on trees and fences. I was halfway home when Haymitch found me and helped me get back."

"Katniss..." Peeta sighs again and closes his eyes once more. I feel intensely guilty. I cause so much trouble for Peeta and he rarely says anything about it. He shakes his head.

"Which ankle?"

"My right one."

Peeta wordlessly walks over to me and leans down to look at my ankle. He gingerly unlaces my boot and slips it off my foot. He peels my sock off and rolls up my pant leg a little. I can't see the ankle, but judging from Peeta's reaction, it's not pretty.

"Do you think it's broken?" I ask quietly.

"I have no idea. I think we're going to have to haul Sage up here to look at it."

Tadpole chooses now to start moving, but it's different this time. Tadpole moves in rhythmic jerks that startle me. I dive across the table for my rope and start making loops in it. I keep jumping every time Tadpole does. Peeta notices the difference and he eyes me anxiously.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know, it keeps sort of jumping. I don't know what's going on. Do you think it's okay? Maybe I hurt it when I fell?" My hands start trembling as well as my voice.

"Woah, calm down, sweetheart. The kid's probably just got the hiccups," Haymitch says calmly.

"Really? That can happen?"

Haymitch nods patiently. "Yeah, babies can have hiccups in the womb. It's probably just excited because you're worked up right now."

I don't know how Haymitch knows this, but I nod, calming down a little. Now, I recognize the jumping movement. Poor Tadpole's got the hiccups because I'm so keyed up. Peeta rests his forehead on my knee for a second, trying to calm himself down. I'm worrying him to death tonight. After a moment he stands up.

"Alright, I'm going to go get Sage so she can figure out what to do with your ankle."

Haymitch shakes his head and grumbles.

"No, I'll go. You have trouble on that leg with the ice out there. Stay here with her and I'll be back in a minute."

Haymitch is up and out the door before we can protest. Peeta sits tiredly in the chair next to me. After a few minutes of silence, I ask a question that Peeta usually asks me.

"Are you mad at me?"

Peeta cracks a bit of a smile at my adopting the phrase.

"No, you just worried me and I couldn't figure out what had happened when you and Haymitch were going at it with each other. I've been worried that something like this would happen and I just keep thinking about what might've happened if Haymitch hadn't found you."

"I'm sorry. I should've listened to you and I shouldn't have yelled at Haymitch."

"I don't know, he probably deserved it."

"He kinda did. He wouldn't stop laughing at me. I threw a rock at him."

"You what?"

"He wouldn't stop and listen to me so I threw a rock at him. He shut up after that."

Peeta laughs a little. I blanch as Tadpole keeps hiccuping.

"Sorry, Tadpole still has the hiccups."

"The baby really has the hiccups?" Peeta grins. He obviously thinks it's cute.

"Yeah. I don't know, you may be able to feel it. Come here."

I realize that Tadpole's been wriggling around for quite a few weeks and I haven't once let Peeta feel it. I don't think he could the first few times when he had his hand on my belly. The movements were too small, and now they're too big for Peeta's hand to help, so I've just been tying knots. I don't know why I haven't thought to let Peeta see if he could feel it. Peeta hesitates before putting the palm of his hand flat on my belly. After a moment he starts.

"Did you feel it?"

"Yeah! I can't believe it actually has the hiccups," Peeta grins. He keeps his hand there for a while, feeling the short little jumps Tadpole keeps making. I'm glad that Peeta is having a good time. I hate it whenever Tadpole moves, but it's making Peeta grin like a madman, so at least someone is happy. Peeta stands up when the door opens. Sage rushes in followed by Haymitch.

"Well, you didn't get stuck under the fence, but I think this might be more impressive."

"Spare me please," I grumble. "My ankle is killing me, the baby's got the hiccups, I'm hungry, and I'm not in the mood."

"When are you ever? Should've thought about all that before you didn't listen to me," Sage sniffs.

"I like her," Haymitch chuckles as he settles in a chair by our fireplace.

It takes everything I have not to say anything to either of them. Sage inspects my ankle.

"It's not fully broken, but it looks like you cracked it just a little. It won't need setting, but you're going to need to keep it wrapped up, keep it elevated, put ice on it if you can. It's cold enough that you can put some water outside and it'll ice over. If it snows in the next few weeks, you can use that, too. Stay off of the ankle. Your ankles are already swollen just from pregnancy. Besides, you don't have the balance to stay upright if you put weight on it the wrong way."

"So, how long till I can get up and walk around on it?"

Sage sighs. "Katniss, you're not going to be walking around it much besides going from room to room in your house."

"You mean I can't go outside?"

"Unless you mean to your front lawn, no. It's not a matter of your fitting under the fence anymore, it's a matter of you stay off the ankle, or you permanently damage it and risk falling. If you fall with the messed up center of gravity and all this extra weight, you're almost sure to break something. And, of course, the closer you get to your due date, the more falling might result in your going into labor prematurely. Sorry, Katniss, but your stunt tonight sealed the deal."

I don't say anything. I can't. I'm officially housebound. I'm cooped up here for the next three months. What am I going to do just sitting here for three months? What do I do when the baby is only calm in the woods? I know what this means. This means three months of sitting in front of the fire, getting bigger and bigger, with absolutely nothing to do but frantically tie knots in my length of rope. No fresh air, no trees, no grass. Trapped in here like I was in the Capitol, like I was for a long time in District 13. Nothing to do but sit and try to keep myself together.

I vaguely hear Peeta thank Sage, hear her leave. Haymitch says something to me before he leaves, too. I'm not sure if it's kind or sarcastic. I say nothing during dinner. I don't move other than tying knots for the rest of the night. Peeta manages to carry me upstairs to bed, even though I know the extra weight is a strain on him. I fall asleep without saying a thing.

I have vivid nightmares where I'm trapped in a cell in the Capitol. The cell is full of the rose-scented lizard muttations that chased us through the Capitol sewers. I jerk awake and Peeta is trying frantically to wake me, and then to calm me down. I haven't had a nightmare this violent in a long time. The baby is kicking frantically, upset by my reaction to my nightmare, which makes everything worse. Peeta puts his hand on my belly and winces. He knows the movement scares me and he can feel the strength of it. I see his blue eyes stare at me worriedly, eyebrows knitted together. He knows how badly this is going to affect me. He knows what a violent nightmare like this one means. He knows what it means when I don't speak. Sage can easily say that I'm housebound, but Peeta is the one who is awakened by the nightmares, Peeta is the one who watches me stare vacantly into the fireplace, Peeta is the one who sees me look longingly out the window, Peeta is the one who watches me wince and tie knots and repeat my monologue. I am frightened, I am miserable, and I just want this to be over and he knows it. When I can't look at his worried face anymore, I bury my face in his shoulder. He clutches me protectively. After a moment, he speaks. His tone is hushed, but it's sure, defiant, nearly angry.

"It's alright, Katniss. We'll think of something to do. Sage is trying to do what's best, but she doesn't understand. I promise, we'll figure it out. I'm not having you spend the next three months like this."

I nod against him, comforted by his confidence if not a bit skeptical. I don't know what he plans to do. I can hardly walk. All I can hope is that Peeta is creative enough to keep his promise as I shake and repeat my monologue.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am from District 12. I was in the Hunger Games twice. I was the Mockingjay in the war against the Capitol. The Capitol is gone. My sister is also gone. She was killed by a bomb. Gale may have been the one who killed her. My mother doesn't live here anymore. District 12 was destroyed. District 12 is being built back up. I live with Peeta Mellark. I am almost seven months pregnant. My baby will not stop kicking me. I am terrified of it. The baby is only calm in the woods. I have cracked my ankle and I cannot go into the woods. I have almost three months to go.

_**Hope everyone enjoyed chapter five! A big thank you to all my lovely reviewers from last chapter! I'd love it if you'd leave a review and tell me what you thought! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing! :) Suzanne Collins owns it all.**_

*Third Trimester*

It is only the first week of my being housebound and I'm already wondering how I'm going to survive eleven or so more. Peeta does his absolute best to keep me occupied and as happy as possible, but he can only do so much. He tries to make my favorite foods. He'll help me from room to room, wherever I want to go, and he makes sure my ankle is elevated wherever I'm sitting. I generally follow him about whatever he's doing. There's nothing constructive for me to do. I'm not any help in the house. So I usually just watch Peeta paint and finish cakes. I do like doing it, even if I'd much rather be outside. It's a marked change from being parked in the kitchen staring at the fire all day, so I'll take it.

All of this would not be as much of a problem if not for Tadpole's moving. Tadpole is just getting bigger and stronger, and the child's definitely graduated from flutters and light somersaults to full-on elbowing and kicking. Tadpole is equally as restless as I am and kicks nearly nonstop. My hands are red and rough from having that rope in my hands all day, tying knots over and over.

What's really troubling is when Peeta has to leave for short periods of time. Without anything to do and not even anyone else to talk to or be with, I get much worse. Peeta usually puts me up in the nursery before he leaves, since the painted woods on the wall do help minimally. But I'm always frazzled by the time he gets back and he has to spend the next half-hour calming me down and getting me back to a normal state. If he could, I doubt Peeta would leave at all. But he has to, although I can tell he tries his best to diminish the frequency of his trips to town.

The only thing I do every day is try and think of ways to either work through Tadpole's movement or calm it down. A good day is marked by either less movement from Tadpole or my doing better at coping with it. I keep looking for a letter from Annie, hoping that she has advice, but knowing that the likelihood is low. I have an uneasy feeling that this is a grin-and-bear-it sort of situation.

I do get a bit of a surprise one day when I hear the phone in our house ring. I wonder who it is since so few people have them even now. I bitterly wonder if it's Haymitch, too drunk to get out of his house, asking Peeta for more liquor. That does happen with unfortunate frequency. I let Peeta get it since I can't get up and walk to do it myself. Peeta peeks back in after a moment.

"It's for you."

Peeta has to get me to the hallway where the phone is, and then runs to get a chair. I can't balance on one leg for too long. Once Peeta's determined that I'm settled enough, he hands me the phone.

"Hello?"

"Katniss."

I smile a little. It's my mother. We don't call each other often, and the calls are sporadically placed, never an even time-frame. But we do keep in some semblance of contact. It's nice to hear from her.

"Mom. How are you?"

"Oh, just fine. But how are you? Peeta says you've done something to your ankle. He said it'd take him a minute to get you to the phone."

I sigh. "Yeah, I slipped on some ice and cracked it a little."

"You slipped?"

I can hear the question in my mother's voice. She knows it's odd for me to have slipped at all, let alone injure my ankle from it. Then I remember and wince guiltily. I have not told my mother that I'm pregnant. My mother keeps talking in the pause that I take to think.

"Katniss, are you alright? It's not like you to slip. How did you damage your ankle that badly on ice?"

"Well, my center of gravity is pretty much nonexistent becau-"

"What do you mean? You've always had fantastic balance. Are you sick?"

"Mom! Stop talking for a second!"

"Sorry."

"I was _trying_ to tell you, the reason I fell and the reason my balance is off is because I'm pregnant."

There's a long pause on the line.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. Why is this so surprising to everyone?"

"Well, you've never really seemed like the type. But I suppose Peeta had a lot to do with this, too, didn't he?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes, of course he did."

"Well, this is a surprise. How far along are you?"

"A little more than six months."

"More than six months? You got all the way to your third trimester without telling me?"

"I'm sorry, Mom, it slipped my mind."

"Katniss, only you would forget to tell your family that you're pregnant."

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"I'm not mad, it's just very you."

"Yeah, well, I can't even keep it together most days because this baby is kicking the hell out of me twenty-four-seven and I have anxiety attacks every time it does! So really, I'm just in a perpetual anxiety attack."

"Takes after you. You wouldn't stop kicking me either. But, you have anxiety attacks?"

"Yeah. Remember that rope I used to tie knots in?"

"Yes, you didn't let go of it once in 13."

"Well, it's bad enough that I have to do that again. I did want to ask, do you know of a way to get the kid to calm down?"

"Well, the baby might be fidgety because you are. Or you may just have a bit of a hyperactive baby on your hands."

"Great," I mutter, deadpanned. If my mother can't get the child to calm down, no one can.

"You could try a few things. Don't eat as much sugar if you've been eating a lot of it-"

"Mom, remember who I live with."

"I'll take that as a yes for the sugar. It'll make the child even more hyper. I would say try walking, but since you'll be having trouble with that, try rocking a little. It might put the baby to sleep for a bit. I did that with you and it helped. But if it doesn't, just be glad you have a healthy, active baby."

I sigh. "I am, it's just hard to cope with."

"I know. But you don't have long to go."

"Yeah, just three more months," I mutter.

"That's not that long. It'll be over before you know it. And you'd better have a picture of that child in the mail the day it's born."

I smile a little through the wincing from Tadpole's tap dancing.

"I'll try my best."

"You know, you could come visit here so I could see my grandchild in person."

She won't come back here to District 12. I know my mother will never set foot back in District 12 if she can help it. She'd relapse again. She's never fully recovered. A part of me is still bitter about it. But she sounds hopeful, so I suppress the bitterness. There's no need for it when she's just excited.

"Maybe. Though, give Peeta and me a month at least to adjust, Mom. I'm not sure how I'm going to react yet to this whole...mother thing."

My own mother laughs a rare laugh over the phone.

"You'll slip right into it, don't worry."

I know that's not true. It may have been true for my mother, but it'll take me some time. I don't tell her this.

"Good," I say to placate her. My mother has to leave to get back to work soon after. When Tadpole's kicking gets too strong, I ask Peeta to help me upstairs to the nursery, remembering what my mother told me. Thank god Peeta had the presence of mind to put a rocking chair in there. I'm using it already and the child isn't even born. I tell him what my mother said, that rocking might help. That and a decrease in sugar. We both deflate a little at that. Peeta so loves baking me things and my appetite hasn't slowed. I suppose Tadpole isn't so big yet that I can't fit anything in my stomach.

I keep thinking about what my mother said. About how I should just be happy that I have a healthy baby. It upsets me. I am happy that I have a healthy baby. Why wouldn't I be? Does she think I'd forsake Tadpole's health because I'm scared? Furthermore, does she not understand that I would give anything to beat the anxiety? I would give anything to be able to enjoy this like normal mothers do. I don't want to be scared when my baby moves. I want to take joy in it like everyone else does. This reaction is so deep-set, I can't shake it. Just one more thing the Capitol ended up getting from me before it went under.

I don't want the baby to stop moving. It would mean the baby was unhealthy. I just want the child to stop being as frantic and fidgety as I am. The kicking is strong and quick and violent. I want it to just calm down a little. Softer kicks, playful ones, not urgent ones. I sigh bitterly. I'll just have to see if the rocking works.

I sit in that rocking chair, swaying back and forth for hours. Sometimes Tadpole does fall asleep. Not for long, but for little naps. When the baby wakes up, though, it's the same restless kicking. And I suppose I can understand. Tadpole can't nap all the time, and I'm sure the child knows that its mother is stressed. It's not a solution. Just an intermittent and temporary treatment.

The worst is the nightmares. Nightmares aren't new to me. I have them nearly every night. But these are especially vivid. I'm always trapped somewhere. In the Capitol in a cell, in District 13 in the hospital, in a tree in my first games held there by Careers. Always hopelessly trapped. The worst is when I wake up and feel Tadpole panicking as much as I am. My child already has to deal with my psychological scars. One night, where I swear I can feel the baby shaking inside me, I break down, sobbing into Peeta's shoulder. Peeta doesn't ask what's wrong. He knows I don't always like to talk about it. He knows that being here is the most help he could give me. I do tell him this time, though. It's been plaguing me for a while.

"Peeta, I'm scaring it. It's shaking, I swear it is. It's not even born and-"

"No, no, you're not scaring it. The baby's maybe stressed because you're scared, but you didn't do anything. It's not your fault, Katniss, you didn't do a thing."

"How do I have any hope of being a decent parent if I'm already messing this up before the child's even born? The kid's got a messed-up mom who can't even get through a pregnancy without a mental breakdown."

"Katniss, the fact that you're already worried about being a good parent tells me that you already are one."

I let this sink in. It is a comforting thought, even if I'm skeptical. I ask another question, a little calmer this time.

"Peeta, what are we going to tell this child when it asks about my nightmares? Or your hallucinations? Anything that has to do with the Games, or the war? We'll scare it to death then, too."

"I don't think so. I think it'll be fine. We can cushion some things when the child is still young. But it'll handle it when the time comes. I don't think it'll scare the child if we tell them at the right time. I hope it'll make them thankful. Make them braver. Think about it like that."

I nod, hoping he's right.

"And you need to cut yourself some slack. This child will love you. You're its mother. It's not going to criticize you, Katniss."

"Because it won't know any better."

"You still have no idea. The effect you have."

"Whatever. I'm just glad the kid has you. It'll have at least one decent parent."

Peeta patiently protests, but knows I'm not going to let this go any time tonight. I can't agree with him, although I'm glad he thinks so highly of me. Eventually, Peeta gets me back to sleep.

My days progress like this. Fighting to keep it together, wishing that I could get through this like a normal person, knowing that it won't happen that way, and hoping that the next few weeks go as quickly as possible. I hate that I am so shaken up by this that I feel that I have to hurry everything along. I spend my days frightened and bitter and guilty.

I can feel that things are progressing steadily, though. I can feel how much heavier Tadpole is getting. The next week, I realize that even Peeta's shirts don't fit over my belly anymore. They stop a third of the way up. Thankfully, though, I can't walk into town, so I make Peeta go get larger clothes for me. I don't have to make the choice between my mother's dresses and having to buy new clothes in town. That does make me smile a bit, triumphant that I've escaped both humiliations. I feel myself get out of breath trying to move from room to room. I doubt that would've happened so early without my ankle, but with one leg out of commission and a heavy baby, moving anywhere is getting difficult.

This is especially unfortunate since Peeta's trips to town become more frequent and a little longer. I can understand it. He can't ignore his business, especially now that I won't be hunting until this baby is born. But I can't get from room to room without him, which is an infuriating loss of autonomy even when he is in the house. When he's not, I have to twiddle my thumbs and keep rocking in my chair until he reappears. I would try to walk around with a crutch, but I don't want to risk a mishap. I'd rather be fidgety and annoyed than risk another fall.

One day, Peeta leaves early in the morning and isn't back until mid afternoon. Peeta has been out for such a long time that I'm hopelessly irritated by the time he comes home. I know it's not really him I'm mad at, but one can only sit in the same room for so long before annoyance follows.

"About damn time," I grumble at him when he appears in the doorway.

"Sorry, I know I've been out a long time."

"A really long time. You could've come to check on me if you had to see multiple customers. Just come to see if I was alright in between."

"I'm sorry, I was dealing with the same one all day."

"All day? What'd they want? That cake better be the size of our house if it took all day."

"Come on, I know you want out of this room."

"Understatement. I've been staring at the wall all day."

"It's a pretty wall."

I roll my eyes. "Yes, it's a pretty wall. I love the wall. But it's still a wall, the same damn four walls I've been looking at all day. Where are you going?"

Peeta has turned down the hallway with me in tow.

"Peeta, I'm hungry, I want to go to the kitchen."

"Just give me a second, I promise we'll eat something soon."

"I've given you a lot of seconds today, can we please just go to the kitchen?"

"In a minute, I promise."

"Peeta, I'm losing my mind just sitting in this house all the time. I'd like to at least be able to go where I want while I'm inside."

"Katniss! Hush for a minute! I'm trying to be nice to you!"

I stop short, mouth snapping closed. Peeta is laughing exasperatedly.

"I have a surprise for you, but you're making it extremely difficult for me to give it to you. Please, don't talk for a minute, just follow me. Humor me. Please?"

"Okay. I'm sorry," I mutter guiltily, feeling terrible about nagging Peeta. Peeta leads me to the front door. I have no idea what's out there that he wants to give me. I'm fervently hoping it's not some sort of animal I'm going to have to take care of when I open the door. There is an animal, but what it is attached to is what makes me gasp. There's an old, grizzled-looking mule standing, switching its tail in the green space in the middle of the victor's village. It's dragging a tiny wooden cart with two seats up front. Peeta chuckles.

"I told you to humor me."

Here I am sniping at Peeta about being trapped in the house and he's trying the whole time to get me out of the house. I can't go to the woods because I can't get under the fence, but I can at least get outside and maybe ride around town. I'll have to suffer a few stares since I am now hugely pregnant, but I won't be trapped inside.

"Oh my god. Thank you, Peeta." I bury my face in Peeta's chest, arms as far around him as I can get them with my belly in the way. He stands silently with me for a moment before stirring.

"Come on. We should go now if we want to do anything before dark."

He helps me hobble over to the cart, helps me up into it, climbs in beside me.

"Where in the world did you get this ancient thing?" I laugh, looking at the old mule. The mule's ears swivel back, as if it heard me.

"Someone Greasy Sae knows. They didn't want it anymore since it's so old. Said it couldn't pull a plow anymore. But little wooden carts are a lot lighter than plows and it won't have to do anything once you've had the baby. I figured we both got a good deal."

"Does it have a name?"

"No. Why, do you have one in mind?"

"Can we name it Haymitch? I'm still mad at him and I know he'll hate it."

Peeta doubles over laughing.

"He'll despise it. It's perfect."

The little cart sways and jolts as the slow old mule drags it along. I don't care how long it takes to get to town, or even if we get there. I'm just glad to see the sky, to see bits of snow on the side of the road that won't melt until spring. I'm glad to be able to breathe air that speaks of trees and birds and grass. Suddenly, Peeta steers the cart down another path. It doesn't lead to town. It leads to the fence.

"Peeta, if you're going to the fence, I can't get under it."

Peeta sighs.

"Katniss, you're terrible with surprises. Just_ be_ _patient_."

"Sorry."

It takes a long time to get to the fence. When we do, I don't notice it at first. But then I see it. The fence still has to be in place. Not to keep us in anymore, but there are predators out in the woods. The people of District 12 deigned to keep it propped up just to keep them out of populated areas. But there is a gate now. A small, simple one. It just connects to the first few feet of cables in the hugely tall fence that is not charged anymore. But it is tall enough for me to be able to walk through it upright. It's right where I always went under. My little ditch that I dug is even still there.

"Peeta, you did that?"

"That's what's been taking me so long every day. I found some people who could help me with it since I'm no good with things like this. I had to find a way to get you past the fence, and then I had to find a way to get you _to_ the fence."

"This is..."

I can't even think of a way to describe it. I think this is the best present anyone has ever given me. I can do nothing but swallow the lump in my throat and say what I think is the most sincere thank you I've ever uttered. Peeta grins.

"Come on. Let's get you out there."

Peeta has to come with me beyond the fence because, of course, I can't walk there on my own. But he tells me he'll help me go wherever I want. I end up sitting propped up at the base of a tree, on the side of a forested hill. The snow hasn't collected as much here because the tree cover is so dense. Peeta sits with me. And Tadpole quiets almost immediately. I grin.

"Happy to be back?" I ask my stomach.

"It stopped moving?"

"Sort of. Tadpole sometimes wiggles a little, but the crazy kicking doesn't happen out here. Ever."

"I wish we could get Tadpole to stop the crazy kicking at home, too. For nighttime, when you're trying to go to sleep, or trying to eat your dinner."

"You used the nickname."

"I don't like it, though."

"You do like it, you just don't want to admit it."

"I don't."

"You do so."

"It's convenient."

"Admit it."

"Alright! It's a little bit cute."

I smile and stop pestering Peeta, triumphant.

"Don't worry about the nighttime kicking. I wish it would stop too, but if you can get me to the woods, if I can have just a little rest, I think I can handle it."

"I'll get you to the woods. Every day."

Of course he will.

And he does. Peeta takes me out here every single day. He sits with me, which is fine because I'd be sitting anyway. I can't climb anymore, can't even walk, so I just sit with Peeta, happy to be outside again. I sleep a lot out here, leaning against Peeta, glad to be able to get some rest while Tadpole is calm. It is my solace from Tadpole's evening kicking, from the nightmares. Those things don't get any better. But now I have my haven back, so I'm not miserable all day as well as during the night.

The only unfortunate side effect of this is that I start sleeping so much when I'm in the woods that I don't sleep much at night. I sit wide awake in the dark, tying knots through the kicking. I don't usually wake Peeta about it even though he wants me to. He has to sleep sometime. I do wish I could get my days and nights back on the right track, although I try hard not to complain even internally about those things since I'm able to be outside. It does make things difficult sometimes, though, especially when the hours when Peeta and I are both awake are becoming fewer and fewer. I just have to try and get rest when I can, and that is in the woods.

I go through two weeks of this flip-flopped schedule. Poor Peeta doesn't get to talk to me much since I'm usually unconscious while he's awake. We miss each other's company. I am trying to think of a way to change my sleep schedule when it comes. A letter. I only have a month and a half to go, but Annie has replied to my letter. It is short, and a little truncated, but that's Annie. I read through it quickly. Annie says she had about as much trouble as me when she was pregnant. Not in the same exact way, but with the same effect. She sys there were days she'd wake up and didn't remember that she was pregnant and got scared. There were days she panicked about raising a child alone. She says that the pregnancy is the worst part. Once the child is here, I'll be alright. She says that Killian is absolutely fine, and encloses a picture of both of them. He's nearly taller than his mother at only fourteen. He stands, lanky, long arm slung protectively around his mother's shoulders, grinning at the camera. His brown hair waves like hers, his grin and his eyes sparkle just like Finnick's. I put the picture aside to put in the book later. I almost think that Annie ended the letter abruptly right there when I notice another page. There are only a few words on it.

_As for your baby, that's easy. Just sing. If the birds stop to listen to you, so will she._

I put aside the fact that Annie has arbitrarily decided that Tadpole is a girl. I hadn't thought to sing to the child. That day, I fight to stay awake in the woods. I want to try Annie's suggestion tonight. If it works, I'll be able to sleep at night like a normal person. I let Tadpole kick a bit during dinner, but after I ask Peeta to put me upstairs in the nursery. He does so before going back downstairs to work on an order. All the better. I don't want to see him disappointed if this doesn't work. I haven't sung to anyone since the war ended. I try a few simple songs that don't work. They're soft and lighthearted, if not a bit empty. Tadpole keeps moving.

"What's wrong with those?"

Tadpole dances in response. I rack my brain. A heavy weight settles on my heart when the last song I can think of crosses my mind. I haven't sung it since my first games. But if anyone else is deserving enough to hear it, it's my baby.

"This is the last one I'm going to try, and I'm only going to sing it once. It's very special. So listen close, because if it doesn't work, you won't hear it again," I murmur to the baby. I take a shuddering breath before I begin.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise_

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings_

_them true_

_Here is the place where I love you_

I can feel the tears well up behind my closed eyes as that baby slowly stops kicking me. It still moves a little, but they're gentle, sweeping movements. Almost as if the child were dancing. I keep singing. On and on and on. After a few minutes, Peeta is hovering in the doorway, tentatively listening. He loves to hear me sing and I do it so little. I wave him in. I don't stop singing. He sits at the foot of my rocking chair, puts his hand on my belly. He smiles when he only feels flutters. I sit here, rocking, with one hand running through Peeta's hair with his head rested on my knee, the other on my belly. I sing until we all fall asleep.

_**Hope you all enjoyed! Sorry the update is a little later than normal. I'm currently backpacking through Europe, so internet is scarce. But this chapter is coming to you all the way from Vienna, Austria! Which I think is pretty cool, haha. I'd love to hear your thoughts in a review! It'd be a nice thing to read on my 17 hour train ride to Rome. Thanks for reading! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	7. Chapter 7

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Suzanne Collins owns all the things.**_

I finally get a few weeks' peace. Ever since I started singing, Tadpole doesn't kick hardly at all. Tadpole still moves, but they're lighter, sweeping movements that I can handle. My voice only rests when I'm in the woods and when I'm asleep. Peeta is the happiest I've seen him since the few weeks before Tadpole started moving. I know part of it is because I'm finally happy, but I know the other part is that he loves my singing. It calms him just as much as it does Tadpole. I notice that the amount he gets confused or has hallucinations decreases drastically over these weeks. He mostly just sits close to me and listens. I resolve to sing like this to him the next time he has trouble. I do not like to sing in public, or to just anyone. I'll only sing in the woods and to people I'm certain I love. But I will sing to them as long as they need me to.

I repeat that song so many times that the mockingjays that nest close to our house have nearly memorized it. Sometimes, at night when I stop singing, they spontaneously break out in my song, without provocation. I hear them repeat the song in little groups, singing in rounds. There is music in our house nearly all the time.

These weeks also see an improvement in my ankle. I am able to put a bit of weight on it again. Not that it matters much. I am enormous now, and even if my ankle were unharmed, I would be forced to waddle everywhere I go. Tadpole is so heavy, I have to wear a sort of belt around my belly just so my back doesn't give out from the strain. I have always had a slight build, and I don't handle the extra weight very well. I have hit the stage where I can't fit a cupcake in my stomach. Everything settles, just as Sage said, right at the base of my esophagus. I'm not all that concerned, though, just because I know I have so little time left. I feel like I've been fighting my way through my whole pregnancy, so this is a relief.

Peeta still helps me out to the woods every day, even though I can barely fit on the bench in the front of the cart anymore. I knew Tadpole would get big, but I could never have anticipated not being able to fit in certain spaces. Benches like this one, chairs, narrow hallways. I'm even loud in the woods now. It's so strange to hear my own heavy, dragging footsteps when I'm used them being silent. I can't even sit down or stand up without Peeta's help. I have finally become the human roly poly I dreaded months ago. It is nearly as infuriating as I thought it would be, but this is tempered by the knowledge that it won't last long. I have a matter of weeks, if that.

Every few days, Peeta drags me by Sage's office on our way home. She demands to see me as often as possible. One day, she tells me that I technically have three more weeks to go, but that really, I could have this baby at any time now. She tells me what to watch out for and that when the time comes, I should get Peeta to bring me straight here.

The coming week feels as if I'm holding my breath. I am just waiting, feeling that I'm in the calm before a storm. Just as I knew that I was pregnant without anyone having to tell me, I know that I do not have three weeks. I can tell in the way that I inexplicably feel the compulsion to re-fold all of Tadpole's clothes one morning. I can tell in the way that one day, I wake up to find space between my stomach and my breastbone and Tadpole sitting low inside me. I know that Peeta and I will be parents by the end of the week. Peeta can feel it, too. We both spend the week in jittery, anticipatory nervousness. Things do not feel real to me and feel too real at the same time.

In the evening in the middle of the week, I start to feel very light, sporadic contractions. Sage said that would happen. I don't have to go to her office yet. It's when they get stronger and when my water breaks that I have to go. She said this part can last for a while and it's not urgent, so there's no need to do anything but go about my day as normal. I also don't tell Peeta about it, because I know he'll start panicking early and I don't want to worry him before it's necessary. He won't understand that so little is happening right now that it's barely worth paying attention to. But I know now I'm down to a matter of days. Maybe hours.

I last through the night without incident. I go through my morning as normal, but it's as if I'm waiting for a bomb to drop. I still let Peeta cart me out into the woods. It'll help my anxiety a little and I could last another day like this without anything happening. I get Peeta to take me to my lake today. I stand for a minute, in the same place I watched the little tadpoles swimming around, just taking it in. It's not spring yet, but signs of it are starting to crop up. Little buds are starting to form on the trees. Same for the flowering plants around the lake. Some of the buds have little, colorful petals peeking out. I see a little splash of yellow and blue in particular on a lone petal from a rogue iris plant. Eventually I ask Peeta to help me sit down. He grasps both of my hands, lowering me down. I have just made contact with the ground when I feel a little pop and there's a gush of clear fluid coursing down the insides of my legs.

"Up, up, back up," I demand, my hands still in his. He frowns confusedly, but pulls me gently back up.

"What is it?" He must not have noticed because of the tall grass.

"Peeta, did you not see the waterfall?"

"What?"

I gesture down to my soaked legs. His eyes widen. He chokes out a few words.

"Does that-"

"Yes. You like it that much out here, huh?" I ask my stomach.

Peeta hasn't moved. He nods once, but doesn't seem to have understood.

"Come on, we should start walking. I don't move that fast and we're supposed to get to Sage's now."

He nods the same nod. I have to take Peeta's hand and drag him along for a few paces before he clues in. He remembers to help me because I still have small trouble with my ankle. He does seem to want me to go a little faster than usual, though. At one point, I can't keep up with him.

"Peeta, slow down, I can't go that fast."

"Sorry," he slows down, looking at me sheepishly. I can tell he's started to panic and wants to get me to Sage's as quickly as possible.

"Calm down, we have time to be able to walk like normal people. This is going to take a lot longer than you think, Peeta," I can't help but laugh a little. Peeta doesn't seem much calmer, but he does slow down considerably.

"How long?"

"I don't know. But we'll be there a while. Maybe all night."

"Oh. Sorry. I just-"

"It's alright. There's just no need for panic. You'll know when it's time to panic."

"...how?"

"I'll probably be yelling at you."

"Oh, thanks," Peeta replies sarcastically.

I smile a little. I am strangely calm right now. I know that this won't last and that I'll be panicking later with the knowledge that I'll have a defenseless human being in my care in a matter of hours. But for now I am unconcerned. If anything, I want to enjoy the certainty of the moment. I am no longer waiting, no longer wondering how I'm going to be able to power through my days. There's a finality to everything right now that I'm enjoying. We get back to the cart and Peeta gingerly helps me in. I realize that we haven't got anything to take to Sage's.

"We should go home first."

"But Sage said-"

"Peeta, you know that lovely little bag you've had packed for three months?"

"Yes."

"We don't have that with us. We should go home and get it first. It won't take that long."

"Why do we need it?"

"I'd rather not go through labor in this," I gesture to my outdoor clothes. I can still fit my father's jacket over my shoulders if I don't zip it. "It's not exactly comfortable. I'd also love for the baby to have clothes to go home in."

Peeta sits for a moment without saying anything. I can tell he's nervous about this, but he knows I won't leave him alone until he listens to me. He sighs.

"Okay. But don't yell at me if it takes too long."

I just chuckle. We are silent for a moment before Peeta speaks.

"Are you nervous?"

"A little. But I'm also really happy that this is almost over. It hasn't been easy. But I will say I think you look more nervous than me."

He doesn't say anything. He just smiles that sheepish smile again. I am worried about him, though. He hasn't said much in the last twenty minutes or so. I think it's because he's worrying about bringing a baby home just like I am, but I decide to ask him.

"Are you nervous about bringing the baby home?"

Peeta smiles.

"Some, but not that much. You are?"

"Yes! Babies scare me. They're fragile. I'm always afraid I'm going to hurt them. That's not what you're scared of?"

"Not really. And you won't hurt it, Katniss. I swear you're convinced you'll be the world's worst mother and you need to stop. No, I'm worried about the next twelve hours or so. I'm worried about you having to actually _have_ this baby."

This brings me up short because it's so low on my own list of worries.

"Why? You're not the one who actually has to go through it," I grumble.

"I know that," Peeta rolls his eyes. "I just hate seeing you in pain. It really bothers me. And things can go wrong. I'm just worried."

Peeta is perpetually worried about me and today is no exception. He hates to see me in any sort of distress, and if he does, he is immediately trying to fix it. He's also obviously still worried that he might lose me, although I know the chance of that is slim with Sage to help us. I wince. This will probably be terrifying for Peeta. I'm calm now, but I've seen mothers in labor. My own mother used to take care of them. I usually cleared out if I could, but sometimes I couldn't and was forced to watch them and hear them. I see flashes of them, white-knuckled, gripping door frames, chair backs, headboards, fistfuls of bed-sheets. I remember them pacing like caged animals, or rocking back and forth, or sitting huddled on the floor, or on all fours, heads hanging like beaten dogs. The noise was always the worst. You couldn't escape it. Panting and moaning and growling and screeching. Ancient and bestial. Childbirth looks and sounds impossibly violent and frightening. I need to assuage Peeta now, because I know there'll come a time later where I won't even be able to speak.

"Don't worry about anything going wrong. Sage will be there. She'll let you know if there's reason to worry about that. Just put it out of your mind now. But, Peeta, I can't avoid the pain. It's going to look and sound awful and I won't be able to help it. But that doesn't mean anything is wrong. It may seem like I'm mad at you, or like something's wrong, but that's not true. I just need you to understand that now because I won't be in my right mind later. Just trust me that it's going to be okay."

Peeta nods determinedly. "Okay. Do you even feel anything yet?"

"Yes but it's not strong enough to count as pain." I am not concerned about the pain aspect of this. I am used to physical pain. I've almost died before. I've been in the hospital too many times to count. I deal with pain as it comes and usually forget it quickly. It's only emotional pain I ever worry about.

Peeta gets us back home fairly quickly. He doesn't even bother to help me out of the cart, since he intends to run in the house, grab the bag, and run right back out. Thankfully, he's in the house when the first sign of real pain hits. It feels like the muscle cramps I used to get in my calves, only ten times stronger and from hipbone to hipbone. I think I feel it extend back to my back a little. It is surprisingly powerful. I cannot do anything but clutch the edge of my seat and grit my teeth until it passes. I exhale, realizing I was holding my breath.

"This'll be fun," I mutter to myself. Peeta is back out the door in record time, which is good. Although we're not taking too long by any means, the onset of real pain tells me it's definitely time to stop dawdling and get to Sage's. Peeta seems to notice a reminiscent look of discomfort on my face and immediately asks about it.

"Are you okay? What happened?"

"I'm fine, I'm just feeling it now. It was only one, so don't worry."

The strange, strong pain only hits once more on our way to Sage's. I curl over a little, eyes clenched shut, gritting my teeth again. I was in the middle of a sentence and had to stop abruptly. When it passes, I open my eyes again. Peeta just eyes me warily.

"Sorry, they're hard to talk through." I continue where I left off. Right now, everything is quite bearable since I get long breaks in between the pain. I take advantage of it since I know it won't last.

We get to Sage's fairly quickly. She is a bit surprised to see us, but takes it in stride.

"Few weeks earlier than I thought, but that's just fine. Come on."

She shows us to the same bed I was in last time and lets me change into the nightgown Peeta brought. She examines me first, then straps me to a number of strange machines that spit out charts I can't read.

"Well, you've got a ways to go, but everything is normal. I suggest you get as much rest as you can now. Sleep if you can. You won't be able to later so try."

Sage doesn't disappear upstairs this time, but just moves into a room adjacent to this one on the same floor. I suppose she wants to keep a closer eye on me today.

"You should try to sleep too," I tell Peeta. "I'll probably wake you up later even if I don't mean to."

I drag him up on the bed with me. I fall asleep surprisingly quickly with him pressed against my back, one hand on my belly as always. Sometimes I float out of unconsciousness, half-awake when the pain hits, but mostly I stay asleep. Sage doesn't wake me up at all. I'm sure she reads the strange little charts the machines produce, but she obviously finds them satisfactory and lets me rest. I'm grateful. I'm not sure how long I've been asleep when I slowly start waking up. I keep being pulled from sleep, pain on the edge of my consciousness, before I slip back under. This happens for a while, slowly waking me up. But soon I'm brought harshly back to the waking world. This pain is stronger. A lot stronger. It lasts much longer this time, too. I know my time for rest is over.

The strange waves of pain come closer together now. I still have breaks in between, but they're shorter. When it hits, there is nothing in my consciousness but pain. I can't speak, can't think, can't even keep my eyes open. It is brutally strong. It's powerful enough that the sensation seems to carry over into my legs, running down the nerves there. I lie there for a while, legs squirming, hand fisted around the corner of my pillow before I decide I can't stay lying down anymore. Thankfully Sage appears immediately, as if summoned.

"I want to stand up," I demand, eyes clenching shut again. Sage examines me first, but then obliges. Peeta is still asleep and I decide to leave him there for a while and let Sage deal with me. Peeta will hate this, so the less he has to see of it, the better. Sage pulls me to my feet easily. She's surprisingly strong for someone who is fairly small.

"You're strong," I blurt out.

"You're not very big, even pregnant. Besides, if I'm strong enough to set bones, I'm strong enough to get you on your feet. Do you want to walk or just stand?"

"Walk."

"Okay. That's good, walking gets things moving faster."

"Good, because I'm already tired of this. How much longer is this going to last?"

"Not to be discouraging, but you're definitely not out of the woods yet. You're almost halfway."

"Joy."

"Come on, let's walk."

The walking at least helps until the pains hit. Then I have to stop, and hold on to Sage so my knees don't buckle. Sage holds me up, steady despite her size. She keeps walking with me, up and down the room with the beds. No one else is in here besides her, me, and Peeta. She is businesslike as always, but is remarkably patient.

"Thank you," I blurt again. I seem to have lost my ability to censor myself. "I know I don't listen to you most of the time, and you still put up with me."

Sage laughs at my candor.

"Well, you are one of the most difficult patients I've ever had. But, if anyone has earned the right to be a pain, it's you. I'll put up with you as long as you need, and that's my thank you to you."

Sage tries to counteract the sincerity of her words with a bit more terseness than usual. But they get through to me all the same. I nod once at her. We understand each other. She keeps walking me up and down the room until we hear Peeta stir.

"Katniss?"

"I'm over here, Peeta."

Peeta is upright and across the room in seconds.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"I haven't been up that long, Peeta," I lie. He won't understand that I was trying to spare him a few hours of this. "Just a few minutes."

"Here, maybe you should take over for a while," Sage suggests. "Just help her walk and hold her up when a contraction hits. Simple."

Peeta nods, happy to be of some help. I am glad that Peeta is here, because the pain starts getting worse. Now, when it hits, I loop my arms around Peeta and press my forehead to his chest. He stands quietly through it, rubbing my lower back. He asks, "Does this help?" I just nod into him, unable to do much else. A half an hour later, I'm clutching Peeta, standing in the middle of the room, and I can't keep quiet anymore. I've been relatively silent before this. The sound is somewhere between moaning, whining, and singing. It stays on the same pitch and reverberates in the room. A few minutes later, I realize I can't keep walking. I can't stay upright without leaning on Peeta.

"I don't want to walk anymore. Go back," I murmur, shaking my head. Peeta does everything I ask, saying almost nothing. I don't lie down once we're back to our little corner. I lean, hunched over, fists clutching a bar on the side of the bed, arms braced against it, still half-standing. I'm vaguely aware that my legs are twitching and trembling uncontrollably. I am slowly losing touch with what is going on, losing awareness. My existence becomes just fighting through pain. I am only still conscious of Peeta's presence. He just keeps rubbing my back, silent. He seems to know that trying to talk to me is a bad idea. I'm sure I'll snap without meaning to if I try to talk back. I just stand, fists clenched, trembling and moaning that same whining, singing moan. At one point though, I do snap at Peeta as he starts doing something to my hair.

"What in hell are you doing? Are you seriously playing with my hair right now?"

"No, I'm just re-braiding it. It's falling all over the place. I think you'll feel better if it's out of your face, but if you want me to stop, I will."

Peeta just calmly replies to my biting tone. I feel bad, but I am past the point of being able to do a thing about it.

"Sorry. Yeah, re-braid it." Even my apology sounds forced, but all speech is a struggle for me, so I move on. Peeta carefully braids my hair as my head hangs and I sway, rocking back and forth, still clutching the bed. He is right; I feel better with it out of my face. He keeps rubbing my back after that. Things continue this way for a long time. Hours, I think. It is all I can do to just clutch the rail on the bed and try to stay sane. My keening moans get louder, harsher, and longer. Sage comes by more than once to check on me. She keeps telling me how many centimeters I am and I am past the point of knowing or caring what that means. After she does this the third time, I snap at her, too.

"Sage, I don't give a damn. If I'm not ready to get this thing out of me _right now_, then I don't care. Just tell me how long I have to do this and be done with it."

"I was going to ask how she was coping, but I guess I have my answer," she says to Peeta.

"Is she supposed to be doing better or worse?"

"She's about on par, though I think she has back labor, which is a bit worse than normal. Just keep doing what you're doing and don't talk if you don't have to. She's relatively calm now. Just stay vigilant, because I think she's one of those who is going to lose it when she hits transition."

"What does that mean?" Peeta asks warily.

"Oh, you'll find out."

I would yell at them about talking about me like I'm not here, but I can't spare the energy. Time moves too slowly. I spare a moment to look up at the windows in the room. There is no light peeking through the curtains now. I have been here all day. I have no idea how much longer I have to go. It is exhausting and constant and impossibly draining. When I get tired of standing, I move to the bed, which is tilted up a bit so I'd be sitting upright if I were laying on it normally. I'm planted on my knees, hands clutching the top of the bed, head buried there too. All of my limbs are shaking now. I don't want to stay upright, I want to lie down, but lying down is too impossibly painful. I cannot find a comfortable position anymore. The only thing slightly comforting is Peeta's hand rubbing warm circles on my back as it has been all day and part way into the night. Time starts to take its toll on me. The pain has not gotten worse in the last hour, but I have been fighting it all day. I am starting to come unhinged.

"I don't know if I can do this," I moan. It's been taking so long.

"You can."

I shake my head at him. "No."

"I know it doesn't seem like it. It's been taking a long time and you're tired. I know you are. You're handling it better than I would if I were in your position. You can do it, and you will." Peeta's voice is calm and measured and blessedly understanding. I just nod at him, head still buried in the mattress.

As if the universe knows that I am reaching my breaking point and wants to play a cruel joke on me, something happens. My throat feels like it's closing up. I am nauseous. My whole being is trembling, almost vibrating. And there are no breaks anymore. Absolutely none. The waves of pain overlap each other. And that is when I really lose my mind.

"Oh. Oh my god." I start yelling. "Oh god, oh god, oh god!"

"Katniss?"

"Oh my god, what the hell is happening?" I shriek, incorporating the words into the moaning that doesn't stop now. I'm inexplicably infuriated.

"What's wrong?" Peeta asks, panicked at my outburst.

"I feel like I'm _dying_, that's what!"

I hear quick footsteps.

"Is she alright?" Peeta asks. Sage must be here.

"She's fine. Well, relatively."

"Then why do I feel like this? This does not feel fine, dammit!"

"_That's_ transition," Sage tells Peeta. "The good news is, we don't have much longer. The bad news is, she'll be like this for the remainder of labor."

"Quit talking about me like I'm not here and just tell me how long I'm going to feel like I want to die!"

"Shouldn't be much longer than thirty minutes."

"That's 'not long' to you?"

"Well, considering you've been here since ten in the morning and it's almost midnight, yes."

Any retort I have dissolves into incoherent wailing.

"Just breathe through it," Sage commands. I am in too much pain to handle any sort of direction well.

"I swear to god, Sage-"

"Swear all you want, but it'll help. Just breathe."

"I mean it. Tell me to breathe one more time and this," I gesture to a small but heavy clock on the side table, "and anything else I can find will be coming towards you."

"Sage, she means it. She'll throw it. She will throw it at you. She's got good aim-"

"_Breathe._"

"You breathe!" I yell, lobbing the clock behind me.

"I told you," Peeta mutters. I know the clock didn't hit Sage when I hear it slam into the wall. But I know it was probably close.

Sage speaks, obviously trying to contain how badly I've startled her. "Alright, so coaching isn't going to work with her."

"I could've told you that," Peeta mutters, chuckling a bit. "Not like that anyway."

"Don't you dare laugh at me, Peeta!"

"I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing at Sage. What would make you feel better?"

"Killing something."

"Well, you almost killed Sage."

"No I didn't. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god," my words dissolve into more amorphous yelling. "I want to shoot something!"

"I know, I know. And I'd let you if you weren't, you know, in a hospital."

"I want to throw things! Oh god-"

"Please don't. You already broke the clock. Don't get mad at me, but maybe you should try breathing."

"_No_."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Is this normal?" Peeta asks Sage.

"For the most part. Although, she is the most violent I've ever seen. She's lethal."

"Oh god, I don't want children anymore!" I bellow, punching the mattress underneath me.

"Does that help? Punching?"

"I don't know, I don't know! Dammit, dammit, dammit," I beat the mattress with each phrase.

"That's right, Katniss, punch the mattress," Peeta says patiently. If I weren't in blinding pain, I might laugh. I do end up beating the mattress. It doesn't actually help the pain, but it gives me an outlet at the least. This continues for at least fifteen minutes. My continuous hollering and punching, Peeta's attempt at encouraging and calming me.

"I want this thing out of me!" I scream when the pain gets particularly bad.

"I'll check how far along she is," Sage says, startled as much as Peeta is at my vehemence. I clench my fists as she examines me once more, hoping that I don't have to suffer much more of this. Peeta just puts his hand over my clenched one.

"You're almost done," he assures me. I can't say much back, but I do unclench my fist and grasp his hand, vice-like. He squeezes back. I dissolve into that wailing again, but I don't let go of his hand.

"You're in luck. We're ready to have a baby," Sage concludes. The next few moments are a flurry of jumbled activity. Sage running for things, Peeta looking around wildly, me being moved this way and that. Next thing I know, I'm turned around, sitting upright, curled over, legs slung into something akin to stirrups, straining and pushing and sweating and shouting so hard I'm afraid my lungs will burst. I still haven't let go of Peeta's hand. He's got one arm behind my shoulders, holding me as far upright as he can. The other is bent at the elbow, straining against the strength of my hand bearing down on his. Sage is shouting directions at me. I can't follow them. I can hardly hear her over my pulse pounding in my ears, the pain, the strain, and the exhaustion. After a moment, Peeta starts calmly, measuredly repeating what she says. He's not yelling, he's not demanding. Just talking. I obediently follow, able to think clearer when he talks to me. Sometimes he counts with Sage. Sometimes he says calming things to me. Sometimes, gently directs me. Others, encourages me. His voice is the only thing I'm really aware of for a time. Suddenly, Sage does break through my consciousness.

"Baby's head is out. You're nearly there, just one more."

Peeta jumps when she speaks. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"You can't tell from a head. A little patience, Peeta?" Sage admonishes. I almost laugh, but I can't yet. I feel as if I don't have an ounce of strength left, but I try to dredge up what I can and with a final shout I feel the baby slip free. I feel warm weight on my stomach and hear a tiny, thin little wail. Sage is rubbing the baby with towels as it rests on me, so I can't really see it at first.

"Did you hear that, Katniss?" Peeta asks thickly. I have fallen back, leaning exhaustedly, propped up by the tilted bed.

"Uh uh. What did she say?"

"It's a girl."

I look back down and Sage finally moves away from the child. There she is. Grayish and red-faced, still screaming her head off, thrashing about as much as her tiny limbs can. She slows down to little kitten mewls once she realizes that Sage has stopped the business with the towels. She's looking around quickly, sharply, and curiously, frowning still. I can feel my tired, drooping smile envelop my face. Sage gets Peeta to shakily cut the cord before whisking her off to weigh her and make sure she's alright. She's returned quickly to us, this time wrapped tightly in a little blanket. She's still looking around, as if trying to take in everything at once.

"What in the world are you looking at?" I chuckle quietly at her. She starts and her little gaze darts to me and Peeta, as if she just noticed us. She squawks halfheartedly at us before quieting down and settling against me. She's still looking up at us, but it's no longer questioning.

"Yeah, you know who we are, don't you?" I ask her.

"She's got your hair," Peeta smiles. He's sobbing, tears pouring down his face, leaning on the side of the bed. She does indeed. She's already got a head full of stick-straight, dark hair, just like mine.

"Your nose, though."

"She does, doesn't she? But look at her eyes."

She has the bluest eyes I think I've ever seen. Dark, deep blue. I see so many people in them. A bit of my mother. Some of Peeta's father, from what I can remember. So, so much of Peeta, in how bright and sweet they are. A quiet gentleness that is unmistakably Prim. And there's a little spark in there that is just her that I've never seen in anyone else.

It's not until Peeta hands me a tissue that I realize I'm crying as hard as he is. He's just staring down at her like she's the most precious thing in the universe.

"Here, take her," I smile. Peeta has been waiting for this all of his life. I'm not going to delay it any longer. He gingerly gathers the little girl in the crook of his elbow and doesn't look away. I suspect he never will. She looks up at him and immediately closes her little blue eyes, burrowing into him, content. He sits down with her right next to the bed, as close to me as he can get.

"So, what's her name?" Sage asks, business-like as ever once more, pen poised to record it.

Peeta and I peer into her little face.

"Should we name her after anyone?" he asks.

"No. She's her own person," I reply, decidedly. He nods in agreement. I keep wondering what her little eyes remind me of. I think of how the only place she was ever calm was out in the woods, particularly by the lake where I gave her her nickname. I remember a vivid blue from just this morning, by that same lake.

"Iris." Her eyes look just like that little petal poking out from that iris plant from this morning. Peeta looks at her hard. And nods.

"It fits."

I lean over onto his shoulder, taking in the both of them, like two little matching puzzle pieces.

"Yes. It does."

The last thing I see before exhaustion overtakes me is Peeta, smiling and talking to her endlessly, Iris listening with rapt attention. I fall asleep and dream of her bright blue eyes.

_**Hope you all enjoyed! Thank you so much for all the well-wishes while I was traveling! They were lovely and did indeed make the train to Rome more fun. I'm home safe now. Do leave a review and tell me what you thought! Until next time!**_

_** ~Belmione**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. :)**_

"You three are free to go home. Come back in a week just to make sure the little one is alright."

That is when I start feeling uneasy. I was unconcerned yesterday. Sage kept us here for twenty-four hours to make sure Iris and I were alright. Now we're being sent home. With a tiny baby. I'm not being told what to do with her anymore. I'm on my own.

Peeta carts us back up towards the Victor's Village and I've got Iris tucked in the crook of my arm. I'm glad I don't have to walk back since I don't feel completely normal after a long and arduous labor. I look down at her. She's squinting, looking all around. She does that almost all the time. Always trying to take everything in. But I realize the squinting is because the sun is in her eyes a little.

"Sorry," I mutter to her, hovering my hand above her her little eyes, shading her somewhat from the light. Her face relaxes and she keeps looking around. "Have you noticed how...I don't know how to put it."

"How alert she is?" Peeta supplies.

"I don't know, I was thinking more along the lines of distracted."

He smiles. "That, too. She's a curious little thing, isn't she?"

"Seems like it. Are we not interesting?" I ask her. She ignores me and keeps watching everything else. She seems particularly interested in our old mule. Peeta chuckles at her.

"Apparently not."

"I just went through fourteen plus hours of labor for you, but go ahead and ignore me," I tell her. She does. I just watch her little eyes dart around, still wondering what to make of her. Peeta can't get enough of her. He barely watches the road in front of him. We finally get home and I'm glad to be somewhere familiar after a rocky few days. I'm also enjoying being able to move a little bit more freely, even though I can feel the physical toll Iris put on me. I suspect it'll take some time to recover. But I can get out of the cart without help, so that's an improvement. We cross the threshold, Iris looking around as wildly as ever at the new scenery.

"This is your house," Peeta tells her, grinning at her. She looks at him, listening. She seems to know when Peeta is talking to her, although sometimes she still finds other things more interesting. Peeta loves talking to her. He narrates almost everything to her and she's barely a day old.

"You going to give her the whole tour?" I ask, even though I think I know the answer.

"Of course."

I smile a little. I'm made to follow Peeta through the house with the child as he tells her what each room is. She just blinks at him and seems to pay attention. At least, as much as a newborn can. She seems particularly interested in the pots hanging from hooks in the kitchen. She wriggles a little in Peeta's studio. She must like the colors. The best is when her little eyes light up looking at the wall in her nursery. I'm not sure if she's made the connection between the picture and the only place she was calm when she was inside me. Whether or no, she seems to like her room. We stand silently with her in the nursery, having been through every room in the house. Her little gaze moves to me, as if she's waiting for me to tell her what's happening next. Except I don't know.

"What do we do with it now?" I blurt.

"We take care of her," Peeta answers simply.

"I know that," I huff. I'm just at a loss. She's not wriggling, she's not crying, she's not even looking around anymore. She's just staring intently at me and doing nothing else. I don't know what to do but just stare blankly back. "She's just...not doing anything. I don't really know what to do with her unless she cries or something."

"You don't have to do anything with her really. She's a baby. She'll watch us and either go to sleep or cry when she wants something. It's alright, Katniss, you're both fine."

Peeta is so much better than me at this already.

"Well, I'm going to go make us some lunch. You want to watch, Iris?" He directs at her. I follow him downstairs and sit in the kitchen with her still in my arms. She does watch Peeta, following his movements with her shaky, clumsy, day-old gaze. He offers to take her for a bit once lunch is done so I don't have to eat one-handed. He seems adept at doing so, easily holding her up with one arm, going about his business as if he's done things this way forever. Iris is remarkably quiet for the remainder of the day, to the point that I wonder what use I am at all, since Peeta seems to be the only one who knows what to do with her. The first sign of any reaction I have to her at all crops up in the evening, when we're getting ready for bed. Peeta starts walking with her towards the nursery and I stop him.

"I don't want to put her in there."

"What?"

"I want her in our room. I don't want her all the way across the hall. She's so little."

I don't know why this is so important to me, but it is. I can't stand the thought of her being out of my sight, even if I don't know what to do with her when she's here. It terrifies me. I don't like the idea of my not being able to get to her if something happens.

"I wondered if you'd say that."

"You did?"

"Yes. I don't care what anyone else says, you're the most maternal person I've ever met. I thought you might not want her across the hall at first."

I snort at him.

"I'm not maternal."

"Sure you're not. Come on, I stashed something in the closet that I thought might come in handy."

Peeta does turn into the nursery, but only to go open the closet. He passes the baby off to me as he drags something out. It's a cradle. A tiny cradle that will fit perfectly beside our bed. He smiles and shrugs.

"I didn't really want her across the hall either."

He easily carries the cradle into our room, placing it within reach of our bed. Thankfully, Iris has dozed off and she continues sleeping even after we lower her into her little cradle.

"I'm glad you thought of this," I admit.

"Me too."

We fall asleep easily, both of us facing the little cradle beside our bed.

I start awake sometime in the night. At first I'm confused because I don't remember any nightmares. Then I hear it. A grating little wail. I'm still half asleep as I instinctually scoop up the little girl and press her to me. I have a strange, sleepy sense of deja vu, thinking I've done this before, but I can't remember where or with whom. I just let the feeling overtake, saying things I swear I've said before.

"Shhh, it's alright. You're alright, sweet girl. Everything is fine." I stroke silky, soft hair. "Everything is alright. Shh."

I start waking up a little more and wonder what she wants. She's stopped the sharp wailing and just continues with unhappy little whimpers. I check her diaper, but it's clean.

"Are you hungry?" I ask more to myself than her. Sure enough, as soon as I can unbutton my shirt, she's suckling hungrily, pressed against my chest. I'm glad that at least I know what she wants for the time being. I'm dreading the nights she cries and I have no idea what she wants. I know they'll come soon enough. I lean back on the headboard, settling in for the next half hour or so.

"You really eat a lot, you know that, right?" I ask her. "You had me eating my own weight in food for a few months and now I might as well not even put on a shirt since you eat half the day anyway."

I hear a throaty chuckle from beside me.

"Don't be too hard on her."

"I'm not. Even you have to admit she eats an awful lot."

"I'll give you that. It's probably because she never stops moving, either."

"Hmph. Which means I'll always be the one who has to wake up in the middle of the night."

"Hey, now, I would've at least tried to calm her down first and see if it was anything else before waking you up. Except you were in that cradle before I even knew what was happening. And you say you're not maternal."

"I'm not. It was weird, I felt like I've done all that before. And I wasn't fully awake and I was on some sort of auto-pilot. It was just very familiar."

"I could tell you what that is. Whether you want to hear it or not is another story."

"Fine, what is it?"

"Katniss, everyone knows you may as well have been Prim's mother. I'm sure you said the same things to her a few times."

Of course he's right, although I'm just realizing it. Prim used to sleep right next to me. I used to wake up to her cries, too. I'd gather her up and say the same things I just said to Iris.

"That's what I mean when I say you're maternal. I don't mean you gush and fawn over people. I mean you just take care of them. That's what you do. Even with that little scowl you have half the time, you still make sure everyone is safe. It's a compulsion, almost. That's what I mean by it."

I don't say anything back.

"I'm sorry, should I not have said that?"

"No, it's alright. You're right. It just doesn't make it any easier."

"I know." Peeta sits up and gathers me into his arms. We're all tucked into each other, me against Peeta, Iris against me. I start sniffling and Peeta picks up on it immediately.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know. I don't know what to think about any of this. First I swear I won't have children. Then I decide to. I get used to the idea, and I almost lose her. And I fight to keep her. And then I get her home and I don't know what to do with her, but I'm still so scared of her being even a foot away from me. Then every way I react to her reminds me of Prim and I'm scared all over again. What am I supposed to think about this?"

"You're not. You're not supposed to think anything. Think different things at different times of the day if you need to. It isn't supposed to be simple. You're really hard on yourself, you know that, right?"

"It's hard not to be when you already know what to do."

Peeta laughs at that.

"I don't know what to do. I'm winging this as much as you are. It's only day one. Just take it a day at a time. It'll get better."

I can only hope that Peeta is right. I get Iris back to sleep and subsequently follow, falling into a bizarre, rare, dreamless sleep.

The next few days are strange for me. Peeta and I have gotten ourselves into a nearly unbreakable routine in the last fifteen years. Now, that's all over. Our days are jumbled and chaotic as we try to adapt to Iris being here. The time we used to spend seemingly finding things to do is gone. We've got our hands full with her. Of course I anticipated that a baby would be quite needy. But Iris seems, to me at least, to be a particularly loud and reactive baby. If she's not happy, everyone knows it. At first, every time she cries, Peeta and I scramble to figure out what she wants. A lot of times we fail to understand and are stuck with a screaming baby on our hands, hoping that eventually the swaying and rocking and soothing words will quiet her. It is a disorderly guessing game that more often than not results in a red-faced, wailing child.

By the end of the next week, though, we have a shaky routine established. Iris gets fed often and at the same times every day, like clockwork. This prevents the hungry cries, at least. We can more or less predict diaper changes. Everything else is up in the air. We end up sleeping, if we can, whenever Iris decides to quiet down, whenever that may be. She doesn't ever sleep for long, so we end up napping with her. It's a loose schedule, but it's better than the chaos we suffered earlier in the week.

Once we have her more or less figured out, we start adding things back in to our schedule. I start seeing more cake-decorating going on in the kitchen. There's a lot more baking in general. Peeta paints every day in bits of spare time he can find. This leaves me itching to get back outside. My ankle is more or less healed, I don't have the extra weight and girth to contend with anymore. I want to run and climb and hunt again. Things I haven't done in months. I want the boughs of a tree all around me again. I want my bow back in my hands. But I feel that it would be presumptuous to leave Peeta all alone with Iris. I don't want to ask him.

That's why I'm surprised when it is not me that asks. It's Peeta.

"When do you think you'll start going to the woods again?"

"I'm not sure. I want to go, you know I do. But I don't think it's fair to leave you alone with Iris."

"But you can't stay inside forever. It's not you."

"Sage did say that I should take it easy for a few weeks."

"And you planned on listening?"

"Well...no."

"Thought not," he smiles. "Why don't we try it tomorrow? Leave her here with me, we'll be fine."

"I won't stay as long, then."

"Do whatever you need to. Just make sure you go."

The next day, for the first time in a long time, I slip on my old hunting boots, my father's jacket. I make sure to feed Iris before I leave and make sure she's calm and happy with Peeta. Then I'm out the door. I'm running before I'm even beyond the fence. It is a little strange to open a gate to get beyond the fence rather than shimmying under it. But it doesn't matter once I reach those hills. I snatch my bow from the old tree trunk, get my arrows as well. Both are slung over my shoulder and I keep moving. I feel a little slower than normal, a little stiff. But I am by no means unable, and I am darting through the woods, so deliriously happy to be out here and to be able to move again. I find a particularly tall tree, with a vast web of branches. I scramble up it like it's my lifeline. I am as high as I can get in it without breaking off tree limbs and falling. I move constantly today. I am clambering up trees, dashing up and down hills. I hunt as much as I can, happy to be my silent self again. I missed the tightness in the string in my bow, taking aim, hitting my mark.

I do stick to my promise. I don't stay out here as long as I normally would. People in town are quite glad to see me, although they are a little disappointed that my baby isn't with me. They are itching to see her. Sage isn't happy about seeing me with my hunting gear and my game bag, but I ignore her admonishment. I'm far too elated to care.

When I get home, I find Peeta in his studio, painting away with Iris cradled in one arm. He's talking to her like he always does. She is particularly fascinated by his painting, watching his paintbrush as carefully as she can.

"Did you two have fun?" I ask him, even though I know the answer.

"We did, didn't we?" he turns to her. "She likes all the colors. Are you a little artist, Iris?"

Iris blinks at him and burbles a little. Peeta grins at her. He smiles almost constantly now.

"But did you have fun?" he asks me. This time, it's me who smiles.

"Yes. It's nice to be back. Did she give you a lot of fuss?"

"No, she was good today. Although, we should feed her soon before she realizes she's hungry and starts crying."

"Mmhmm. Come here, you." Peeta transfers her to me.

This system works for the rest of the week. I go out to the woods if Peeta doesn't have to go anywhere. If he does have to leave, I stay. It works until Peeta gets a rush of orders on the weekend. And I am cooped up again. After having to go through a few weeks of being trapped inside, I thought I'd handle this better. But after getting it all back- my woods, my body, my agency-losing it again is more painful. Peeta notices it quickly.

"I'm sorry, I know I've had a lot going on and you haven't been outside. You should go soon."

"It's not your fault. But I can't go outside. I can't leave Iris alone and you have things to do. It can't be helped."

"Have you ever thought of taking her with you?"

"What?"

"Taking her with you. To the woods."

I let that sink in. Can I really take her out there? She is very small. Although, I can't think of anything especially dangerous out there. Definitely not anything I can't take down with one good shot. I suppose if I went out there pregnant, there's not much difference in going out there with her now.

"Or I could take her, you don't have to," Peeta suggests when I've stayed silent for too long.

"No, I could try."

"I think she'd like it. She obviously did when you were pregnant with her."

"Why not? We'll see how she does."

And so, the next day, I'm walking with my hunting boots and my father's jacket on again. Only, this time, I've got Iris strapped to my front, bound there by a long, woven wrap my mother used to use to carry us around. We're pressed stomach to stomach, her little head turned to the side, cheek resting against my chest. She's secure, in my line of sight at all times, and the wrap leaves my hands free. Today I'm definitely thankful for the little gate that Peeta built. I wouldn't be able to take her with me if I had to wriggle under the fence. Of course, I can't run around because I can't jostle Iris, but even so, it's surprisingly easy to move around. I'm glad I took her already. It'll be easier for me to get to know her and to get used to her out here where I'm comfortable.

"Where should we go?" I ask her. She stares blankly at me, eyes wide.

"Let's go to the lake first. That was your favorite before you were born. Let's see how you like it now."

I carefully pick my way down the hills leading to the lake, one hand on Iris's back. When I get there, I sit and gently lift her out of the little pouch created by the wrap. I turn her around, cradle her in one arm, holding her a little more upright so she can see. I can't help but laugh when her little eyes brighten. She kicks her chubby legs a bit, waving her little fisted hand. She lets out a tiny, excited, high-pitched squeak.

"I thought you'd like it."

Once in the woods, I start talking to her like Peeta does. I wondered how he thinks of things to say to her. But I realize he doesn't. Because I don't have to think about it out here. It just flows.

"My father showed me this when I was little. Not quite as little as you, of course. He probably would've thought I was crazy for bringing you out here as little as you are."

Iris is listening, torn between watching me and watching the water glitter and ripple in the sun.

"I wish he could've seen you. He would've liked how curious you are."

I start thinking of everyone who should've seen her. I start telling her about them. I know one day I'll have to tell her again, at a time when she'll remember it. When she's much older. But I tell her now, too. Because it's been bothering me. Because the truth is, as much as I may not know what to do with her, I already love her so much it frightens me. There are so many people I wish could see her and love her like I do. On the other side of that, I'm so frightened because I already love her like I loved the people I'm thinking of right now, the people I lost. I'm already so scared to lose her. The conversation turns into a strange combination between talking to her and playing the game Peeta made up for me. I tell her about them, and think about every good thing they did in my head.

"There are a lot of people who would've loved you. I had a friend named Madge who would've thought you were so sweet. She probably would've been really surprised that I had you at all, but she would've been so glad to see you. There are a lot of people I used to trade with. In this big, busy warehouse that we called the Hob. They would've been so excited to see me walk in with you. It would've taken me hours to get out of there. Everyone would've wanted to see you and play with you."

Iris isn't watching the lake anymore. She's blinking up at me, paying as much attention as a little newborn can.

"I don't know where she is now, but I knew a lady named Effie who would've thought you were the cutest thing she'd ever seen. If I ever see her again, she'll want to know everything about you. She might not want to give you back if she ever gets a hold of you. She didn't always understand us, but she meant well and she tried to help us. I don't know where these people are, either, but I knew this group of people, there were three of them. They were supposed to make me look pretty every time I had to make an appearance. They were very silly people. They didn't understand much. But they loved me, and they would've lost their minds over you. They probably would've wanted to dye your hair blue or something, but they would've loved playing with you. They would've probably forgotten about me the minute they saw you."

A lump forms in my throat as my thoughts move forward from my prep team.

"I had a friend who worked with those three. His name was Cinna. He understood things in a way that they didn't. He definitely understood me. He was my only friend from a place that didn't understand me, that didn't care if I lived or died. He kept me as safe as he could, in his own way. And he made the most beautiful things. He would've held you so gently and so quietly. And he probably would've sent me a train full of things he'd made for you, just because he wanted to. And you would've looked so beautiful in them."

I'm now telling her all the good things these people did. The thoughts can't stay in my head anymore. The words keep escaping and I can't stop them.

"I knew someone who would've laughed so hard when he saw you because he wouldn't have thought I'd ever agree to have you. And he would've loved you just like you were his own baby. His name was Finnick and he never even got to see his baby. He could've picked you up and held you in one hand. He helped me stay in one piece when I was falling apart. And he saved my life. He even kept me sane when I was pregnant with you and he didn't even know it. He never would've stopped smiling at you."

Iris is still watching me intently. I keep going.

"There was a little girl, another person who saved my life. She knew so much about the woods. She helped heal me, and watched out for me. She would've gathered you up and taken you high in the trees. She would've sung to you, and all the birds would've joined in with her. She would've rocked you back and forth and talked to you about the trees and the birds. Her name was Rue and I loved her for the short time I knew her."

A few tears drop onto my lap.

"There was one more person. I loved her as much as I love you. She would've made such a fuss over you. She would've cried when she first saw you, and she would've never wanted to let you out of her sight from then on. She would've played with you and held you. She would've dressed you up, and tried to braid your hair even as short as it is now, and would've put tiny little bows in it. She would've put flowers in your room every day and would've been so upset when you cried and would've rocked you and talked to you until you stopped. She would've carried you everywhere she went. She never would've put you down. I think maybe she would've loved you more than your daddy and I do, which would be hard to do. You would have been the most precious thing in the world to her. Her name was Prim and she was my baby just like you are."

I can't speak again for a few minutes. I just look at that baby and am so terrified and heartbroken and thankful all at once. I take a shuddering breath.

"All those people are the reason you're here, little one. And I'll thank them every day for giving me you," I stroke her little cheek. I know will have to play that game every day. I cannot look at my child and not feel so in love with her and so frightened because of it. So I will have to make that list, have to play that game every day. But I will do it gladly. I lift her and press her to me, kissing her tiny forehead. She cuddles up to me immediately. She eventually falls asleep like this, and I ease her back down into the little wrap. She never wakes. I gingerly get up and trek back up the hill. She's so small I hardly notice the extra weight, to the point where I wonder what made her feel so much heavier when she was inside me. I even manage to hunt with her bound to me. Peeta will probably have an aneurysm when he finds out I was hunting with the baby on my person. But there's no danger I can see. Arrows don't rebound. Even if they did, I never miss.

I go into town afterwards, as usual. As expected, everyone has a fit over Iris. She wakes up after a few minutes, as if she can sense that she's getting a lot of attention. A few tell me, "She looks just like you!" This is not true. She has my hair, but her face favors Peeta much more than it does me. Still, I quietly accept the statement. Many say, "She's adorable!", and "She's beautiful!" and all manner of things people usually say when gushing over babies. Of course I agree with most of them. But overwhelmingly, people comment on her eyes. I hear "Look at those pretty eyes!" and "Goodness, those are the bluest eyes I've ever seen." Greasy Sae even says they look like irises before I tell her her name. I tell everyone we named her for her eyes. They are such bright, clear, happy little eyes. Everyone loves them for how unburdened they are.

Sage nearly chokes when she sees me at her door with both the baby and my game bag. I laugh and tell her, "Well, I forgot to come see you with her a few days ago. You said to come back in a week. It's been more than a week. Do you want to check on the baby or not?"

She grumbles and waves me inside. "I told you to bring the baby here, not to take her _hunting_ with you and swing by on your way home. Only you would bring a baby that small into the woods."

"Actually, it was Peeta's idea." Sage doesn't believe me and gets to Iris's checkup. She disbelievingly deems that Iris is just fine, as if the baby would surely have something wrong with it if her parents are crazy enough to take her into the woods. She also grudgingly looks at what's in my game bag. I just give her some herbs she's eyeing as a gift for having to put up with me. Before I leave, I make sure to tell her that Peeta paints with her in his arms, leaving Sage sputtering about chemicals. I know that Peeta doesn't use paints that have a lot of chemicals in them. Half the time, he makes his own from things I find outside. It's just fun to watch Sage squirm.

Just before I get home, I see Haymitch outside tending to his geese. He must've run out of liquor and is waiting for the next train to come in. He eyes me suspiciously, having not seen me since I fell and twisted my ankle.

"Got the little bugger with you?" he asks, nodding towards the little bundle at my chest.

"Yep. We went hunting today, didn't we?" I ask her.

"You went hu-?" he shakes his head, not even finishing the question, rolling his eyes. "Jesus. Well, let me see the kid."

I stroll over towards him and lift her out of the little wrap once more. He peers into her little face, scowling slightly as always.

"Name?"

"Iris."

He stares at her for a long while. She stares right back at him, as if accepting a challenge. I wonder if she's going to have fire like that in her as she gets older. Haymitch seems to notice her little defiance and chuckles. In a rare show of sincerity he smiles a small, closed-mouth smile.

"She's beautiful, sweetheart."

I make my way back over to our side of the victor's village, thinking about everyone who was so happy to see Iris. Thankful that there are still a few people who are here who can see her. All has not been lost. There is still something left. The people who died didn't do so in vain. I open the door smiling.

"Katniss?"

I laugh, so thankful that Peeta is here. Thankful that I haven't lost everyone who means something to me. I round the corner into the kitchen, where Peeta is icing a cake. I walk straight to him and put an arm around him, cheek resting on his shoulder, Iris between us both.

"Are you alright?" he asks warily.

"I'm fine. I'm just glad you're here."

"Was I going anywhere?"

I smile. Poor Peeta must think I've lost it.

"No. Thankfully, no."

Peeta doesn't say anything else. He just rests his cheek on the top of my head, obviously wondering where this sudden burst of affection came from, but not wanting to question it. After a moment, I lean up to kiss him once, and then I lean down to kiss Iris's tiny cheek.

"I'm just glad you're both here."

_**Hope you all enjoyed! Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews from last chapter! I'd love to hear your thoughts about this one as well! Pop by and leave a review and tell me how you liked it! As always, many thanks for reading! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Right, so I have no clue what is going on with . I had no intention of re-posting the first chapter. I am still trying to get it to work. Here's hoping it does!**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. No suing, please! :D**_

Ever since I took Iris out to the woods that one day, Peeta and I just take her along wherever we go. I cannot stop laughing the day that Peeta walks over the threshold wearing Iris on his front, bound to him with the same wrap I had used just the day before. He looks at me innocently, questioning.

"What?"

I gesture to the wrap, doubled over in silent laughter. He just looks confusedly at himself and Iris. He doesn't understand. I don't know whether it's funnier that I've never seen a man wear one of those before today, or that, despite this fact, Peeta looks absolutely natural wearing it. I shake my head.

"Nothing, never mind."

He brushes off my laughter and happily continues going about his day with Iris dozing against him.

After a week, Peeta discovers that I've been hunting every day regardless of whether Iris is with me or not. I come in and sling my game bag onto the table. It lands with a heavy thud. He eyes it, frowning lightly. Iris is fast asleep, chubby little cheek leaning against my breast bone.

"What's in there?" he asks. The bag sounds too heavy to be filled with plants I've gathered.

"A turkey."

"A _turkey?_ Like, an entire turkey?"

"Yes. No one else wanted it, so I figured we could salt it up and save it."

"You...killed it?"

"No, I just happened to find it. Yes, of course I killed it."

"You were hunting?"

"Yes. Why else would I lug an entire turkey in here? No one else in town hunts."

"You were hunting. With the baby."

"Yes." I am going to try to play this off like it isn't an issue. Hopefully I can minimize the aneurysm that Peeta is already having.

"You don't think that's a little dangerous?"

"No. Why would it be?"

"Something could happen!"

"Like what? You make it sound like I was wrestling mountain lions or something. I shot a turkey."

"But what if something happened, like an arrow came back at you or something?"

I knew he'd ask that.

"Arrows don't rebound. If I had missed, it would've hit a tree. Anyway, I don't miss, so it doesn't matter. I've been doing this for a week and nothing's happened."

"A week?"

"That's right."

Peeta just looks at the floor, obviously wondering whether to protest this further.

"Peeta, look at me and tell me I'd do something that would put her in danger."

He sighs. "I know you wouldn't. It just seems really rough for a baby."

"I know. But I promise she's safe. Now cheer up, I know turkey's your favorite."

Peeta's eyes do brighten a little at the prospect.

In the same week, we send letters to our few friends with a little picture of Iris inside. The one going to my mother has three in it, to try and make up for the fact that I didn't tell her about my pregnancy until it was almost over. One goes to Annie, with a thank you to her for the advice. We also put a copy of the pictures in our book. Not that we would need them to remember what Iris looks like now. We have Peeta's paintings for that. Peeta paints her with the same frequency that he paints me. Most of the time, we're both in the painting. Me sleepily shushing her and rocking her; me asleep with my hand in her cradle, Iris clutching my little finger; me with her bound to my chest, bow and quiver and game bag slung over my back; me right after I had her, sweaty and pale and tired, staring down at her, open-mouthed. My favorite, though, is just her. It's a view of her from Peeta's vantage point. In the picture, she's staring up at an elevated paint brush, brightly watching him paint, unabashedly curious as ever. I wish there was a way to send the painting to everyone. He's captured the spark in her little blue eyes in a way that the photograph never will.

A few weeks later, I get a phone call from my mother, who has just gotten the pictures in the letter. She gushes over the pictures of Iris, dissecting all of her features, telling me which of our distant relatives she looks like. I patiently let her, all the while thinking that Iris looks much more like the Mellarks than my line of the family. When my mother finishes, she asks, "Do you think you really will bring her here to District 4?"

I sigh. My mother obviously wants to see her very badly. I know that she will not come back here. A part of me thinks it is very selfish of her to ask this of me. Even after all this time, even with my woods and Peeta to comfort me, I can barely keep myself together some days. Does she not think I am as badly damaged as she is? Does she not remember that she left her daughter a catatonic, mental Avox to go off to District 4? I have not been out of District 12 since the revolution ended. I have not seen some of the individual districts since Peeta and I were on our Victory Tour, trying furiously to calculate our every move and every word, trying to save our families and ourselves. My only memory of most of these places is a black, ominous cloud. I do not want to leave the forests of District 12, which are and have always been my haven. But I also remind myself that my mother is the only living blood-relative I have left besides my four-week-old baby. Even though I want to tell her everything I'm thinking, it will do no good to be mean to my mother about this. She will not change and neither will I. We do not get along, our relationship is irreparably strained, but she is still my mother.

"We might. Give me a day to talk to Peeta about it. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

She enthusiastically tells me when she'll be close to the phone tomorrow before hanging up. I make my way back into the kitchen where Peeta is busy putting icing flowers on those cookies he makes, Iris strapped to his front. She seems particularly fascinated by the orange icing. I wonder idly if orange is her favorite color like Peeta.

"What did your mother have to say?" Peeta asks as he starts on a new tray of cookies.

"She wants us to come to District 4 to visit her. She wants to see Iris."

Peeta nods, still icing. "So are you going to go?"

"Well, I wanted to ask you about it."

"I don't mind either way. You just decide what you want to do and I'll follow along."

"I think I should go. I haven't seen her in fifteen years. Even though it is annoying that we're the ones who have to uproot and go there."

Peeta chuckles. "It doesn't make a lot of sense, does it? But I agree with you. I didn't want to say, but I think it's a good idea to go. She's the only family you've got besides us, and you still have her."

I nod. I selfishly forget sometimes that Peeta lost his whole family when District 12 burned. Both his parents, his brothers. It seems that Peeta remembers a little too keenly right now. His eyes clench shut and he leans down to grip the edge of the table, white-knuckled. I immediately get up, circle the table, and loop my arms around his waist from behind him. I've got my cheek resting against his shoulder blade, saying the same things I always do when this happens.

"It's alright, Peeta. It's not real, whatever it is, it's not real. You're safe, you're in your house in the Victor's Village. It's alright-"

I hear little whimpers emanate from the direction of Peeta's chest. Iris knows something is amiss. She doesn't like what's happening to her daddy. The little whimpers break into wailing and I tense. Loud, jarring noises are never good when this happens. I know Peeta would never hurt her, not even now in one of his spells, but I am afraid that her crying will scare him. As I suspected, Peeta tenses more.

"What's going on?" he asks urgently. "She's crying, are they hurting her?"

I wince. "No, no one has her. She's fine, she's right here with you. She's probably just worried about you."

He shakes his head wildly. "Then why can't I see her?"

"You don't have to be able to see her. Trust me, she's here. You're both here with me, you're both safe."

Peeta grits his teeth so hard I hear them grind against each other. Iris's wails pick up. They're keeping each other going in a vicious circle. I have to get them both to calm down, so I do the only thing left I know to do. I start singing, eyes closed, cheek still pressed against Peeta. Iris is the first to quiet down. Her cries gradually taper off until all that remain are a few stray mewls. Peeta follows. I know he's back with me when he sighs and the muscles in his back relax.

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't be."

"But I had her with me, something could've-"

"Peeta, I've taken her hunting with me. This was low-key for her."

He smiles quietly and grudgingly. He slowly goes back to icing the cookies that are laid out in front of him. After a few more minutes, he's able to pick up the conversation again.

"So we're going to District 4. When do you want to go?"

"Soon," I sigh. I don't want to go, so waiting will just result in it hanging over my head until we leave. "In the next couple of weeks."

Peeta nods silently. "Why don't we just go next week? You'll be hung up on it as long as we're waiting to leave. May as well not delay it."

"I think that would be best."

"Don't worry so much about it, either. You might enjoy going. There's no pressure this time."

I nod and try to convince myself that he could be right. After a moment, Peeta pauses in his work, thinking about something.

"Do you think we should see if Haymitch wants to go? I mean, he hasn't been out of the District in years either."

It seems right for Haymitch to come along with us. He was with us the last time we were in most of these places. He's one of the few people who will understand if we don't react well to all this. We all may be able to help each other through it. He is still our mentor, even after all this time and even if the relationship has always been rocky.

"Yeah, we should ask him. It'll probably be more entertaining drinking in District 4 for a while instead of in his house."

Peeta laughs at this. I know what he's thinking. Haymitch loves getting ahold of alcohol native to the District he's in. It was like a scavenger hunt the entire time we were on our Victory Tour. Beer in District 9, all manner of expensive liqueurs in District 1, whiskey in District 11, harsh vodka in District 2, brandy in District 7, and dark rum in District 4. Haymitch will be sniffing out rum immediately upon reaching 4. It may be a challenge getting him back on the train here. The fishermen of District 4 are not light drinkers and even a veteran alcoholic like Haymitch can get blindsided by the stuff.

"Look, he's outside now," Peeta nods to the window. I turn around. Haymitch is feeding the few bedraggled geese he keeps. Thank goodness they don't need a lot of attention. They may get fed every other day if they're lucky.

"He can sense the opportunity for stronger alcohol," I mutter. Peeta smiles and crosses the kitchen to the window. He shoves it open and leans out.

"Hey Haymitch!" He shouts across the green in the middle of the Victor's Village. Iris squeaks after him, craning her little neck, imitating her daddy. I go to stand behind them, peeking out over Peeta's shoulder. Haymitch staggers a few steps and then shrugs, annoyed, in the direction of our window. He stands and waits for Peeta to continue.

"You wanna go to District 4?"

"Why the hell would I want to do that?" we hear him growl across the expanse.

"Because we're going and you love us," I call flatly and sarcastically.

He makes a rude gesture at me.

"Why in the hell are you going to District 4?"

"Katniss's mother wants to see her grandchild," Peeta points down to the little bundle at his chest. Iris is still chirping excitedly, responding each time Peeta speaks. He smiles at her indulgently. She's never made this much noise other than screaming. I smile too and decide to see if she'll do it for me later.

"Yay for her," Haymitch sarcastically makes repeated, sarcastic, celebratory circles with his index finger. "Why am I being pulled into this?"

"We thought it might be more fun than sitting in your house," Peeta responds. I follow with, "Don't tell me you've forgotten about District 4's rum!"

He sneers at me, but I can tell it's my comment that turns him around.

"Fine, when do we leave?"

Peeta and I look at each other and shrug.

"A week from today!" Peeta calls, decided.

"Wake me up a week from today!" he slurs before disappearing back into his house. I nod once before turning to peer into Iris's little face. She stares at me, wide-eyed.

"You found your voice, didn't you?" I ask her. She chirrups at me, craning her neck again, recognizing when people are talking to her. I can't help but grin.

"You know how to talk back now."

She peeps again, something akin to a toothless grin enveloping her face for a split second before she goes back to staring at me curiously. Peeta is beside himself.

"Can you do it again?" he asks, grinning. She obliges and makes the same thin little squeaks. "What a pretty voice," he laughs. She chirps particularly sharply when Peeta talks to her. This becomes the game of the week. We talk to her and she squeaks back at us. This does backfire once in the woods when I'm hunting. She gets impatient, upset that I'm not talking to her and she squawks indignantly at me, scaring off the birds I've been tracking for a while. I decide then that hunting should be done when she's asleep.

Before I know it, Peeta and I are hauling Haymitch, Iris, and a weighty assortment of bags onto a train bound for District 4. Thankfully the train is not as heavily ornamented as the ones Peeta and I were forced onto during the year we traveled to and from the Capitol and to the Districts. We sit in individual seats instead of moving from car to car, although there are cars for eating and sleeping. It will take a few days to reach the end of District 4 that my mother lives in. Peeta and I settle in next to each other, Iris cuddled up to me. Haymitch sits a few rows ahead, stretching out unceremoniously and occupying two seats, immediately passing out. There is only one other passenger on the train besides us, and she ducks into a different car. It is just the four of us so far.

We will have to go west a little through a small corner of District 10, then south through District 11, and finally to District 4. I stare warily out the window as the train inches slowly forward out of District 12's tiny station. I am impossibly nervous.

"Try to enjoy it," Peeta suggests quietly. "Remember all that dreck Effie told us about how wonderful it would be to see all the Districts? Well, this time it could be true. There's no pressure this time. No charged fences, no watch towers, no guns, no peacekeepers, no speeches. Just try to find what's beautiful about each."

I nod wordlessly at him. We are in 10 in only an hour. District 12 is that tiny, and the train moves so fast. Like in 12, the old fence still stands, but is uncharged and the wire has been removed from the top. This one is higher than the one I wriggle under every day, but not as high as the one Peeta and I saw going into 11. At first, it's hard to find any geographical differences between the two. But soon we move downward out of the round mountains of 12. The landscape flattens a bit. I don't remember much of 10. The only District I remember with a lot of detail from our tour is 11. I wish I had remembered more of this District. Green pastures start flitting by the window. They are long, expansive, flat, and emerald. Soon I start seeing cattle dotting the pastures as they fly by the window. It is a monotonous sort of beauty. To see the same thing stretch on for what seems like forever. For a while, we don't see much sign of civilization beyond the occasional house every few pastures or so. But soon, we start seeing people as we get farther in the district. They look up and watch the train move past. Little girls perched on wooden fences, wearing their hair braided in pigtails like Prim used to. Young men and women out in the pastures, dolling out feed to their livestock. People galloping on horses, herding droves of cattle. We see some sheep later, little white clouds against the green. Once, I even see a man whistling at a few dogs, and they bark and snap at hooved heels, doing the herding for him. After a while, I fall asleep to the movement of the train, leaning against the window, Iris at my front, her tiny, warm weight leaning against me.

When I awaken, the train has lurched to a stop. It is only stopping at one small station in 10 before moving on. It will stop three or four times in 11. A few people board the train, and I watch out the window, observing. I remember during both tribute parades that the tributes from 10 were always dressed in strange, wide hats and pointed boots. I am surprised to find that a lot of people do indeed wear them, although they are, of course, much more muted and practical-looking than anything the Capitol stylists ever dreamed up. Their skin tends to be golden-brown and slightly leathery from long days in treeless pastures, under bright sun. That must be why they wear the hats. They wear a lot of leather as well. I am glad to see that their faces are generally rounder and brighter than I remember. They are more muscular, too, since they are allowed to keep the livestock they raise now. I am staring out the window at the people milling about in the station when one of them locks eyes with me. She frowns lightly at me for a minute before her eyes clear. She turns to someone next to her and nudges him. She nods towards me and he looks, too. His eyebrows shoot up into his sun-bleached hair. They start flagging down the people near them, smiling, and I realize what's happening. They've recognized me and Peeta through the window. I should've known this would happen. But I didn't, and I am unprepared for this. It brings me immediately back to our Victory Tour, to my visit to the hospital in District 8. People overjoyed to see me, everyone knowing who I am. I tremble lightly.

"It's alright, Katniss, they're just happy to see you. Nothing's going to happen."

I nod, but I still cross an arm protectively over Iris, curled over her back, hand cupping the back of her little head, hiding her from their view.

"They're not going to hurt her, either. But if it'd make you feel better, do you want me to take her? So she's not so close to the window?"

I nod, swallowing a dry lump in my throat. He gingerly gathers her up, moving her away from the window, but not before a few people spot her. They clap their hands to their mouths, they grin, they point and gesture. They are ecstatic to see the baby. I pretend I don't notice them and look ahead at the back of the seat in front of me. A few people board the car that we're on. Some look disapprovingly at Haymitch, but all take to staring at the three of us. Some smile, some gape open-mouthed, some just shoot us periodic, curious glances. Peeta smiles politely at them and lets me keep looking directly and pointedly forward. Blessedly soon, we crawl out of the station in District 10, leaving the small crowd of excited people behind. Eventually, those in the car with us stop looking at us and go back to their own activities. I exhale, shoulders relaxing as the train veers south towards District 11. It skirts the side of the mountain chain that runs from District 12 to the border of District 11. We'll then move east a touch, since all trains going to District 11 go through the same square that Peeta and I went to on our victory tour so many years ago. Half the trains on the eastern end of Panem go through that station. People say it used to be a huge rail hub before the dark days. Some of the tracks we travel on now are from that time. It is mind-boggling how ancient they must be. We will reach that station tomorrow morning. We will be traveling non-stop for the rest of the day.

I sleep a lot of the morning and part of the afternoon until Iris decides she's bored and takes to the high-volume wailing she does. After Peeta tries for a half an hour to shush her, I try feeding her. She won't eat, though, and keeps doggedly screaming. I get up and pace the aisle between the seats to try and calm her. I am wincing, mentally apologizing to everyone in the car with us for having to listen to her. One is asleep, magically able to sleep through her crying fit. Two glance at her a few times, but seem otherwise unfazed. One pointedly ignores me. Two older women eye me sympathetically, obviously having dealt with this sort of thing before. No one besides Haymitch gives me any dirty looks, though. I am at least grateful that being the Mockingjay has spared my being a social pariah for bringing a loud, screaming baby onto a quiet train where passengers can't escape the noise. Haymitch, however, does not spare my feelings.

"You can survive two arenas and a revolution, and yet you can't shut that kid up," he growls. Thankfully, we're all in the back of the long car, so the few people in here with us don't hear him.

"You want to try? Be my guest," I snap, moving towards him with the baby. He pulls his flask out of his pocket.

"Just give her a little of this, she'll shut up," he cackles.

I yank her back to me. "Give me a real solution and I may listen to a word you're saying."

"Fine. I'll be right back."

Haymitch disappears off in the direction of the dining car. I roll my eyes, expecting another joke and keep pacing with Iris. He staggers back in a few minutes later with a cup of something. I eye it warily.

"If that's liquor, I swear-"

"Save it, sweetheart. You got a clean handkerchief or towel and one of those?" he gestures to the band that ties my long braid. I narrow my eyes, but go fishing for what he wants in one of our jubilee of bags.

"Peeta bring any bread? Sweet is better. They don't have any made yet," he slurs, gesturing to the dining car while I'm rummaging through our bags. Peeta's lips thin suspiciously, but he produces a sweet roll from our lunch bag. Haymitch lunges for it, snatching it up. He swipes a thin, worn handkerchief from me and one of the leather bands I use to tie my hair. He tears off a hunk of the bread and dips it in the cup.

"What's in there?" I demand. He stares at me, deadpanned.

"Honey. Taste it if you don't trust me."

I do taste it because I don't trust Haymitch one damn bit. It is indeed honey. He sneers at me and continues. He puts the honeyed bread in the middle of the square of cloth, and ties it up. The bread is in the end of the handkerchief, with a long tail of fabric hanging the other direction.

"Give me the kid," he demands wearily. I back away a few steps. He keeps staring at me.

"Gimme the kid or let her keep screaming her lungs off. Your choice, sweetheart."

I hesitantly pass her to Haymitch. He is surprisingly careful with her, if not a bit bored with her. He pops the end with the bread in it in her mouth mid-scream. Almost immediately she clamps her tiny jaws shut and starts sucking away at what I realize is a makeshift pacifier. He raises an eyebrow at me, with a silent Iris cradled in the crook of his elbow.

"And why didn't you tell me to do this two hours ago?"

"Too drunk to remember," he shrugs, unashamed.

"Is that good for her?" Peeta asks, distrustful.

"I know for a fact that every parent in the Seam has been doing this since the dark days," he bites back. "I remember seeing that one," he gestures at me, "with one in her mouth almost all the time. And look how good she turned out," he trails off sarcastically.

"Then why don't I remember seeing anyone do that?" I ask.

"Because you can be remarkably unobservant. She'll be fine with it for a few days. Get a real pacifier when you get to 4," he growls, handing her back to me.

Other than Iris's screaming fit, the rest of the day is very calm. I just watch the low, round, green, mountains snake by outside, watch the smoky-looking fog curl around them. We go to bed fairly early, tired out by the nervousness of the day. Haymitch never moves from the two seats across the aisle. We don't wake him. He'll just stumble around, belligerent, if we do. I fall asleep quickly to the rocking and swaying of the train.

When we wake the next morning, I can feel how much warmer the train is. It is early spring now, but 12 stays cool for a while. We must be very close to District 11, then, because I can feel the balmy air drifting in from our cracked window, can see that the mountains we've been trailing have been reduced to foothills. When we venture out into the same car we sat in yesterday, I see the familiar sunniness that says we're approaching the border. The only way I can tell we've crossed into District 11 is an old ditch where the fence once stood. The thing must've extended underground a ways to make sure that no one could escape. District 11 has deigned to remove the fence, for which I am grateful. It was the most threatening border out of all the districts. I will never forget the massive fence with the razor-wire on top, the watch towers spaced perfectly and manned with heavily armed peacekeepers.

I see the same fields and orchards, but the people working them do not look so hunched over, so broken. They still straighten to watch the train as they did when I first passed through, but they do not wince when they do so this time. The children are not chased into the trees, but are allowed to run in the meadows around their houses. The elderly are not forced into back-breaking work, but sit on tiny front porches in front of what used to be shacks, but that are now not so ramshackle. People smile slow, easy smiles. And everything is so much more colorful than I remember. I forgot that it is spring, and I visited in winter. Everything in the District is blooming. The orchards that flit by are splashes of color. Wildflowers blanket all the meadows. Even the soil, at least in this part of 11, is colorful. Last time I couldn't see it, it was so heavily covered with crops. But planting is beginning right now, so I can see it. I laugh.

"Peeta, look at the dirt."

He leans over to look out. His eyebrows shoot up and he smiles, too.

"Oh my god. It's red."

And it is. It's bright orange-red clay the color of Hazel's braided pigtails. I've never seen a place so naturally colorful. Not false color like the Capitol. It is beautiful and as natural and easy as breathing. All I can think about is how I wish Rue could've lived to see her District like this. I cannot tear my eyes away from the window until we reach our first station in 11, the same one we came through all those years ago. The square is still not all that crowded, because only a fraction of 11 lives close to it. But there are definitely more people here than at the tiny station in 10. I watch them mill about, a dense crowd, though they are only a sliver of the population that lives here. So many more smiles than I saw before. Faces are rounder, eyes brighter. But I do look away before people start recognizing me, because I know they will. If the tiny station in District 10 did, the largest station in 11 definitely will. I expect to hear a rise in excited chatter like I did in 10. But instead, the station slowly gets quieter. The only thing I hear are a few people boarding our car. I fidget in the quiet, uneasy, until Peeta nudges me.

"Katniss, look. Look out the window."

I don't oblige immediately. I don't know if I can face the collective gaze of Rue's District. I cannot think about the solidarity of District 11 without a lump forming in my throat, even after fifteen years.

"Please look. You have to," Peeta urges.

The train is about to pull out of the station before I look. I force my head to the left. I cannot stop the tears that spill over. The entire station has frozen completely. No one moves. It is a station full of statues. Every last person in that station stands facing me, holding up the first three fingers of their left hand. They gradually recognized me through the window and stopped everything to acknowledge me, giving me the sign of my District. Small children look questioningly at me, little hands in the air. Older ones look with fresh eyes, but more understanding. Those from about age twenty and above look on with familiarity, recognition. And someone, I can't tell who, whistles Rue's four-note tune. It must be someone who remembers what happened when I was here last. The whole platform responds, erupting in the little whistled tune. Even small children know it by heart. It must've become a sign for their entire District, a musical version of District 12's gesture. I shift Iris to my other arm, not caring if they see her, half hoping they do. I am not afraid of the people of District 11. How can I be with such weight between us? The brakes on the train loosen as I press the first three fingers of my left hand to my lips, and raise them in the air. I hold my arm there as the train rolls slowly out of the station. The people on the platform keep their arms in place too. Neither of us breaks it until we are out of each others' sight.

I never thought that word could travel faster than a train. But travel it does. Within a few hours, the people hunched over tilling soil, running in meadows, sitting on porches, perched in trees stop when they see the train. And they give the same gesture everyone on the platform did. The same thing happens at the remaining two stations we stop at in 11. People quiet as soon as we roll into the station. The same acknowledgement, the four-note tune. I choke back tears and clutch Iris to me the whole way through 11, which takes the entire day. A balmy night has fallen by the time we roll out of the last station. I lower my arm and inhale the warm, fragrant air that blows in from the open window. A deep, cobalt blue night has fallen on the District. We can barely see them because the train is so fast, but little, yellow, glowing insects are hovering around the meadows and children run after them trying to catch them in jars, parents watching from afar. The night here sounds so alive. Birds still chirr and prattle lightly, some sort of insect living here makes a soothing, chattery whisper with its wings. It collectively forms a still, natural white noise. I finally relax now. It has been a gruelingly difficult day for me. Even so, I wouldn't have missed it. I have never forgotten the kindness of District 11 and, after today, I know they haven't forgotten me.

My exhaustion overtakes me quickly and I doze, lulled into sleep by the emotional stress of the day and the natural lullaby of District 11 that I hear through the open window. Some time later, I am vaguely aware of Peeta gingerly gathering Iris from my now-lax arms. I think he hands her off to Haymitch momentarily so he can gather me up, too. My arms wrap around him, vice-like as he walks me to our little room a few cars down. My face is buried in his shoulder, both trying to forget the events of the day and trying to burn them into my memory. I'm not aware of my own tears until I feel Peeta's thumb run gently under my eyes, drying them.

"You did such a good job today," he murmurs kindly and quietly. I just keep clinging to him, glad that someone understands how difficult this journey has been already. To face things I've been trying to escape, things I've been running from for fifteen years. Seeing bloody, haunting memories flit across my eyelids every time I blink, hearing the voices of passed friends and loved ones with everything I take in. Peeta understands. He feels it too. He remembers. He was with me for almost every second of it. I only wish I could be as steady as he is.

He gently sits me down on our little bed. Haymitch follows him in, cradling Iris. I make a sleepy, mental note to ask Haymitch sometime how he knows so much about babies. He holds her easily, with a sense of experience. I must look very upset, because Haymitch softly growls, "It's alright, sweetheart. You did well."

He goes to lower Iris in the plain little cradle the train provided us, leaving Peeta to deal with me. He slips out of the room, closing our door with a nearly imperceptible click. Peeta pulls me down to lie on the bed. My head is tucked under his chin, arms clutching him, his own wide, strong arms curled around me, guarding me protectively. It is all so very familiar to me. Peeta steadfastly comforting me, both of us huddled together in one bed, the swaying and rocking of the train. The only thing new is one of Peeta's hands dangling off the bed into Iris's cradle. I fall asleep burrowed into Peeta, listening to my daughter's infinitesimally quiet breath, and the slow, easy, warm song of District 11.

When I wake, I am instantly aware of the bitter, almost acrid, but pleasant smell of saltwater. The air is even warmer now, but is drier, not as humid and balmy. It is a sharper heat. I know we have crossed into District 4 sometime during the night. Peeta is already up. He's over by the window, holding Iris up. He's murmuring to her, pointing at things. She twitters occasionally at him. From the angle of the sun, I know it is late morning. I must've been quite tired, since I never sleep this late. I get up and join them at the window. I smile. Coastline flashes by the window, stretching on for what seems like forever.

District 4 is a fairly narrow peninsula that extends far down below the rest of Panem. It's south and west of District 11, in what used to be a very large gulf. We are going to the southern tip of it. Right now, the terrain is dry, scrubby, and rocky. But I know as we travel south, it will become lush and tropical. Even in this dry area, the ocean is breathtaking. We skirt a sheer cliff, flanked by rocky, orange-yellow mountains on our other side. The water beats against the cliffside, frothy and foamy below us. Already, we see fishing vessels dotting the shallows, bobbing with the tossing water. We will see even more as the cliffs level out and become flat, sandy beaches.

"She likes it," Peeta grins.

"She likes water, I think." After all, the lake was her favorite while she was still inside me.

We go out to the main car to sit and watch District 4 zip past the window. The landscape levels out in a few hours. Rocks are replaced with strips of lush jungle. Sometimes, the peninsula is so thin I swear I can see the sea on both sides of us. As sandy beaches replace rocky cliffs, we start seeing more boats bobbing offshore. Little, ramshackle, seaside cabins dot the jungle line. People weave thick, sea-strong rope and nets on the beaches from plants they find in the jungle. Children run along the waterline, and swim out into the waves, powerful swimmers even now as young as they are. Older ones practice throwing harpoons and fishing nets at targets, making a game of it. Almost everyone goes barefoot, most just wear swimming clothes. Peeta, Haymitch, and I look so strange here in our clunky boots, thick corduroy, flannel, and leather, dressed for our cool, wooded hills and mountains.

It is late afternoon when we pull into our station. When I step out of the train, I immediately wish I were dressed more like the natives of the District. The air here in the south of the District is even more humid than in 11. It is thick, hot, and close and I am sweating almost immediately. I didn't think to put on some of the clothes I packed that I still have from when Cinna dressed me for District 4. I will change as soon as we get to my mother's house. Peeta seems to be thinking along the same lines. He squints uncomfortably. Haymitch seems unconcerned. He's either too drunk or too preoccupied with the task of finding some of District 4's dark rum as quickly as possible.

I scan the platform for a few minutes, dodging the curious, excited gazes of everyone who recognizes us, trying to spot my mother. I spot her on the far left edge of the platform. She smiles widely when she sees me. District 4 has been good to her. Her eyes are not as troubled, her shoulders don't seem as weighted. I wonder if I now look as burdened as she used to. She wears a gossamer, long, flowing dress a bit like the few she brought to the Seam when she married my father. Of course, this fabric breathes more, I'm sure. It is strange, a bit bitter, but undeniably good to see my mother again.

I walk towards her slowly, dragging Peeta along behind me by the hand. I leave Haymitch to his own devices. He staggers along behind us. When I reach her she wordlessly throws her arms around me and clings to me with a strength I didn't think she was capable of. I am remembering that I may as well have been Prim's mother and, in a way, I may as well have been my own mother's mother after my father died. She has looked to me for answers since then. I rub her back comfortingly when she sniffles, buried in my collarbone.

"It's okay, mom."

She nods in assent, unable to speak. After a moment, she pulls back and holds me at arm's length, examining me. There is a wistful, nostalgic, melancholy wonder in her eyes. I realize why it's there. I was seventeen years old last time my mother saw me. I am now nearly thirty-three. I know I am a little taller, a little less wiry. She puts one hand lightly on my cheek and I know she's looking at very faint lines that started appearing there in my late twenties. I examine her, too. She looks a little more delicate than she used to, although my mother has always been fragile. Her blonde hair is much lighter because it is streaked with gray. The lines on her face are deeper. But her eyes don't look as tired as they once did, and her skin has adopted the golden cast that everyone in District 4 has. She finally speaks, hand still on my cheek.

"Katniss."

"Hi mom. I'm glad to see you."

"I'm glad to see you, too. And Peeta, it's so good to see you."

She moves to embrace Peeta as well. He returns it and politely smiles.

"It's good to see you too, Mrs. Everdeen."

My mother notices Haymitch squinting and scowling in the background.

"Haymitch! I was surprised to hear on the phone that you were coming. It was a lovely surprise."

"S' good to see you," he slurs halfheartedly, eyes scanning our surroundings. He's already looking for rum. My mother's eyes move to the little bundle tucked in Peeta's arm. I reach over and pluck Iris out of the crook of his arm.

"Mom, this is Iris." I hand her to my mother, who stares open-mouthed at her and eagerly gathers her up. She cradles her with the practiced ease of someone who has had more than one baby.

"She's got your hair," she grins. "You had a head of hair just like it when you were a baby. And she's got such pretty eyes."

We stand and let my mother fawn over Iris for a few minutes. Soon, she starts as if having forgotten something. She starts craning her neck, looking around the platform.

"What are you looking for?" I ask her. I don't get an answer from her before she speaks again.

"There they are."

I look over to my right and pot two more familiar faces. One I know very well, the other I've only seen in photographs, not that it would matter. I'd recognize those eyes anywhere. It is Annie and her son, Killian.

"They only live a station up from here. I told Annie you were coming with the baby and she wanted to see you. I hope that was alright. It may be another fifteen years before we manage to get you out of District 12."

I nod. "Of course.

I can't say anything else. I am strangely overjoyed to see them, to see one more person who truly understands. And I am overjoyed to see her son, smiling, unaffected, even having lost his father before he was born and having a mother damaged by the war and the Games. It gives me hope for my own child. Annie smiles her soft, ethereal smile.

"Hi Katniss," she says in her airy voice, reaching forward and pulling me into an equally light, almost immaterial embrace. I return it wholeheartedly. Even though Annie and I didn't have a lot of contact for the short time we both lived in District 13, we are undeniably friends. We were made friends through mutual loss. It is an odd, unexplained, understood relationship.

"Peeta," she grins, turning to give him the same welcome. He smiles and returns it, but I can see his jaw clench. Annie was imprisoned by the Capitol at the same time he was. Peeta is fighting not to have a relapse on a crowded train platform in front of people who either undeniably recognize him or whom he hasn't seen in 15 years. I put a hand between his shoulder blades to try and ground him. He relaxes a touch. When she lets go of him, she turns to acknowledge the boy hanging curiously behind her.

"I know you've seen him in pictures, but I want to introduce you to my son, Killian."

Annie doesn't need to tell Killian who we are. I can see respectful recognition in his eyes when he shakes each of our hands. He has probably known us as the people his father died for since he was young. He's already muscularly built at only fourteen. He looks just like Finnick did in the tapes from his first games. I realize he's the same age as Finnick was when he won his games. The only thing different is that he has his mother's wavy brown hair. He seem so much younger than Finnick did, though. He's allowed to act his age.

Annie notices Haymitch lurking behind us and greets him brightly. He slurs the same obligatory greeting and continues to squint, hungover, against the bright sun. We all follow my mother to the tiny cabin she's lodged in. LIke all the dwellings here, it's right along the beach. Most of the houses here stand far above the ground on strange stilts. We follow her up a long flight of stairs. Here, this is a small dwelling, but our house that held four people in the Seam was no bigger. She has a small spare room that has recently been converted into something of a guest room. There's a little crib in there for Iris. I suppose Haymitch has been relegated to the couch in her small sitting room. There's a tiny kitchen and her bedroom, which holds the few photographs I salvaged from District 12 after the bombings. I can hear the soft rumble and whisper of the ocean constantly in here.

My mother still has not let go of Iris. She bounces and cradles her, smiling and cooing at her. Iris obviously enjoys the extra attention. A few times she even peeps back like she always does for Peeta. Once we've dropped all of our bags in the guest room and changed into lighter clothing that suits the climate, my mother speaks.

"I do have to go to the hospital for just a few minutes today. You all should come too. I want you to see what I've done with it. I know the patients would love to see you two."

My stomach lurches. I detest hospitals. And her indication that the patients would like to see me floods my mind with memories of my touring that hospital in District 8 all those years ago. I do not have the stomach for injury and illness. But I don't know what other option I have besides agreeing to go along with her. Not without hurting her and causing a scene immediately upon arriving here in District 4. I swallow hard and nod, following my mother back out the door, the whole procession of guests behind me.

My mother really has accomplished quite a feat in helping to build this hospital. It's one of the largest in the District. Much like in District 12, before the revolution, medicine here was primitive, especially this far south in the District. Even though District 4 has always been wealthier than 12, they still were not allowed access to the Capitol's advanced medical technology. I know my mother's hospital has made an immense difference. The building is large, four stories, cement, and blocky. It's designed to accommodate a large portion of the southern half of District 4. My mother returns Iris to me as we walk in. we're in a large, lobby-like space. It is open, airy, with wall-sized glass windows reminiscent of a lot of the buildings I remember from the Capitol. I know it was built this way to give the building a calming essence. I, however, feel that it is forged and almost mocking. To try and disguise a painful place as a thing of beauty. But then, I am not a good gauge of things because I am wildly distrustful of and alarmed by hospitals.

My mother doesn't work in one ward. She floats around and gives help where it is needed. She's always been like that. My mother is a shrinking violet until a medical emergency arises. Then, she is unafraid and undeniably alive. The worse the condition, the more alert she is. It makes sense for her to want to be where the urgency is. She has told the hospital that she won't be around for a few days because of my visit. But as one of the few that manages the hospital, my mother couldn't resist coming in on a day off just to make sure everything is running smoothly. I am also suspicious that she wants her friends here to see Iris. My mother is ecstatic over her because she loves babies. I think the happiest I remember her is when Prim was a baby. She was always smiling. I'm sure she was just as enthusiastic when I was that small, although I have been told that I was a very serious, and slightly stubborn baby. Prim was sweeter.

As expected, my mother shows Iris to everyone she can find. At first, they are excited to see Peeta and me. Then they notice the tiny, ruddy baby pressed to my chest and they lose it. I can handle the fawning of my mother's friends. I can handle some of the patients. But there is a ward we cross through that I can barely bear. It is full of people damaged from the Revolution. People with permanent conditions. Some have chronic illnesses from injuries they suffered or chemicals they came in contact with. Some have psychological illnesses. Some have lost limbs or suffered paralysis. I cannot bear these people because they are the ones who are the most excited to see me and Iris. After all, I symbolize what these people lost a part of themselves for. Some smile widely and it looks lopsided, as if they haven't smiled in so long they've forgotten how. Some grasp my hand, or reach for my shoulder, some stroke my face, or thumb the end of my braid. I know that Peeta is receiving similar treatment a few paces behind me.

But it is the reaction to my child that is the strongest. The widest smiles are elicited by her. Some openly weep when they see her. Many comment on how she has my hair, or Peeta's eyes. A few gently hover their hands over her little back. One, a very young woman who must've been a child during the war, just reaches up and takes Iris's tiny, chubby hand between her thumb and index finger. Iris lightly grasps the woman's finger in her tiny, pink fist. The woman's eyes light up and she softly strokes the back of my daughter's hand with her thumb.

Once I escape that ward, I lean against a cool, white wall clutching Iris to me for dear life. Peeta appears soon after, obviously unfazed. He notices my face and is at my side immediately.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. My ears prick at the note of culpability in his statement.

"Why?"

"For your having to deal with all this. And because I said it was a good idea."

The trip has been surprisingly difficult already. But I'm realizing that everything I'm facing right now, my daughter is going to have to face. I should be aware. I shouldn't coop us all up in District 12 and not prepare her for how her world will react to her. I don't intend on venturing out often, but I am glad in a perverse way that we decided to come to District 4.

"No, it needed to happen."

He frowns lightly.

"I'll explain later. For now, let's get out of here."

A warm, humid, salty, balmy dusk has fallen on District 4 by the time we leave. There's still a line of orange against the ocean when we get to my mother's house. We cook a dinner on the beach. Killian excitedly builds a fire out of driftwood. The salt on the wood makes it burn blue. He takes me out into the shallows to try to teach me spear-fishing. His aim is frighteningly accurate. I fare pretty well. I would've done better with my bow, but with practice, I could be a decent fisher. Killian tells me I do better than I actually do.

"Mom said you had good aim. She wasn't kidding. If we ever get to District 12, maybe you could teach me how to shoot a bow."

"Sure. We'll make a hunter out of you yet. Teach you to get them right in the eye," I smile, enjoying how enthusiastic and at-ease Killian is. We cook the fish over the blue driftwood fire. Killian is responsible for most of the dinner, but I contribute three decent-sized fish. Haymitch is content on the far side of the fire, drinking straight out of a handle of dark, spiced rum. I can smell the bitterness from across the fire. Iris is comfortable in the crook of my mother's arm.

To our right, Killian is telling Annie something while she listens with rapt attention. I lean against Peeta, thinking. After he finishes his dinner, Killian's attention turns to Iris. We let him hold her, talk to her, make faces at her. She responds as much as she can. While they're occupied, I turn to Annie.

"How do you deal with it?" I blurt.

Annie answers, unfazed.

"However I can."

Peeta, confused, asks, "How do you deal with what?"

"With telling him about everything. Telling him why everyone knows who his father is and that's why they know him. Telling him why everyone has felt sorry for him all his life," Annie trails off, staring at nothing in particular, as she is wont to do.

"How do you know when to tell him? How am I supposed to tell her about the Games and-" I stop my downward spiral when Annie claps her hands over her ears and her eyes clench shut. I wince. I feel terrible that I don't know what triggers Annie and I've caused somewhat of a relapse. Killian is over by his mother in seconds. He's still got Iris tucked in his elbow. She continues her happy burbling, very entertained by him. He does politely hand her to Peeta, though, so he can focus on Annie.

"Mom, it's okay. Open your eyes. C'mon, it's okay." He has an arm around her shoulders with a practiced ease that tells me he's done this many times before. He gently takes her hands and pries them away from her ears. After a minute or so, she opens her eyes.

"See? It's fine, everything is okay." She keeps a hold of his hand for a few more minutes before nodding.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she murmurs, patting his hand. He nods, grinning, and scampers back off to find more wood for the fire.

"I'm sorry," I scramble to apologize. I know what it's like when something triggers Peeta. The last thing I want to do is cause any sort of psychological trouble. Annie shakes her head lightly.

"Oh, it happens every day. Don't worry," she smiles softly. "To answer your question, don't worry about what to tell her and when. She'll let you know when she's ready."

"I hope I'm not prying, but how much does Killian know?" Peeta asks tentatively.

"He knows that when I was young, we were ruled by the Capitol. He knows that the Districts were forced to produce for them, that it was little more than enslavement. He knows that there were Games, that people were forced into them, that they were violent, and made to keep the Districts submissive. He knows that his parents were in them. He knows that you two pretty much started the rebellion after your Games and that his father died protecting you during a siege of the Capitol. There are a lot of details that he doesn't know yet. How violent the Capitol was, the things they did to keep people quiet," Annie clenches her fist, willing herself to continue, fighting another relapse. "How old the people were who fought in the Games, how there was only one victor."

I nod, swallowing hard, thinking about having to relay all those bloody details to her.

"I promise, though, you'll know when she's ready. She may have to know more of it all earlier than he did, or maybe she won't be ready to know any of it until she's grown. Just listen to her."

I nod, reaching over and smoothing her silky, dark hair. She looks at me and squeaks, happy and untroubled. My vision blurs as tears well up in my eyes. I don't want to change how unburdened she is.

"I just wish I didn't have to ruin how happy she is not knowing." I watch her kick her chubby legs as I play with her hair.

"See, that's how you'll know when to tell her. Killian is happier now knowing what he does. He knew there were things I wasn't telling him and it bothered him. He wanted to help me. One day, she'll _want_ to know. That's when you tell her. You just have to listen out for it. She won't think it's a burden. Trust me, she'll be far more worried about you two than herself."

I can do nothing but nod and pray that Annie is right. Even though I hate that my daughter should have any reason to worry about her parents. I reach over and gather her out of Peeta's arms. He doesn't protest, understanding my need to hold her close. I nearly cry when she burrows into me so quickly and so readily. She trusts me so utterly. Already, she loves me unquestioningly. Peeta and I both are the font of security and knowledge and love for her. It hurts that she trusts me so when I am sure to mess her up eventually, sure to transfer some of my mental and emotional scars to her. I curl over her a little, protectively, and kiss the top of her head. She just rests her cheek on my breastbone, sleepy and content.

"It's alright," Annie murmurs, aware of my thought process. "You'll worry all the time if you're doing things right or if you're going to mess it up. And then things will work themselves out. Life will go on, the world will keep spinning, and before you know it, she'll be grown and you'll wonder what happened to the time and how she got to be so capable and how she got this personality that's just _her. _Just try to enjoy it if you can. It'll fly by."

I nod again, knowing it will be hard for me to enjoy it when all I want is to do right by her. But Annie has obviously done so well with Killian. I watch him grin and converse happily and politely with my mother. I can only hope that Iris grows up half as happy as he is. And I will make sure she comes through with as few of my problems as possible. I owe it to her to give her as much of a real childhood as possible. I have to try my best to be worthy of the trust she's put in me. I clutch her to me, determined. Peeta chuckles. He can see the resolve in my eyes.

"And you worry about being a good parent," he smiles.

I scoff at him before leaning against him, exhausted even at this early hour. It's been a taxing few days. I fall asleep here on the beach in District 4, my mother smiling across from me, Annie contentedly staring off into space at my left, Killian scampering all around, Peeta calm and loving and steady next to me, and my daughter small, and sweet, and trusting, asleep against my chest.

_**Hope you all enjoyed! Thanks so much for the lovely reviews last time! It made finals week a lot happier, haha. If you have any thoughts about this chapter, please do pop by and leave a review! Thanks again for reading! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Suzanne Collins owns all.**_

I learn, as time goes on, that Iris's presence frightens me to death, comforts me, and breathes life into our house all at once. The first time she smiles at us, _really_ smiles, not strange infant movements that look like smiling, I laugh and smile back and immediately have to start making my list in my head of every good act I've seen people do. It is _because_ she brings me joy that she frightens me. Peeta is just as overwhelmed, although he doesn't have the same chronic anxiety that I do. He is overwhelmed in a different sense. The sense of being overcome that people have when they finally get something they've wanted all their lives is what claims Peeta now. I still don't think he can believe that she's real. Overjoyed disbelief and shock is written on his face and in his eyes with that first smile, as she looks up at us from her cradle, chubby cheeks dimpled and blue eyes bright in her toothless, infant smile. From that day forward, Peeta starts recording all of her firsts in our book, noting the date and time, and often sketching a little picture of her.

Even sullen Haymitch is as hopelessly in love with her as we are. We see a lot more of him now. Of course he always drinks, and more often than not is passed out somewhere in his house. But now he's lured out from time to time. Sometimes he just sits with us in our kitchen, listening to her squeak and babble. Sometimes, though, he holds her like we do. Iris in one arm, liquor bottle in the other. We make sure he's sober enough to support her before we hand her over, and make sure to take her back when the level of liquid in his bottle gets too low. He always growls sarcastic commentary to her on the goings on around the house, or on us, as if trying to teach her the truth about the world.

"See, no. No. Drooling like that in public makes you look slow, like your father. No more of that."

"Okay, now watch it when your mother makes that face. She's highly unstable. Best to hide when she does that. Run if she's armed."

We huff at the commentary, but we're all secretly happy under the pretense. I keep making my internal list, Peeta keeps recording in the book.

First time she can sit up on her own. Peeta props her up to look at some of the orange cookies he's just iced, knowing that she likes that particular shade of orange. She waves her little arms, and tilts forward a bit, holding herself up without his hand behind her back. She doesn't last very long and eventually wobbles backwards into his arms. But she holds herself up for a bit, all the same.

"Katniss, did you see what she did?" he exclaims, beside himself with glee.

I smile, keeping the running list. "I did. You sat up," I tell her. She stares at me and gurgles, accomplished.

First time she reaches out and is able to grasp something on her own. I have to tell Peeta about it when I get back home as it happens out in the woods. I'm sitting in a tree with her, idly spinning one of my arrows in my right hand. She's tracking it as it spins, eyes darting around and around with it. She's big enough now that she can support her own head and she now sits with her back strapped to me, looking out. She shakily reaches for the arrow. I can feel my own eyebrows raise.

"You want this?"

She squawks, reaching more.

"You know, most children go for blocks or something first."

She squeals louder, indignant.

"Maybe you really are mine," I joke at her. "Guess I can't get rid of you now. The kid that plays with arrows is too obvious."

I stop teasing her and point the nock towards her, making sure to keep the point far away from her at the other end, enclosed lightly in my hand. She grasps the end tightly, black fletching poking through her enclosed, tiny, pink fingers. She bounces her fist up and down, watching the shaft of the arrow move with her. She releases it and grasps it further up before putting the end with the fletching on it in her mouth, gnawing it with her gums. I let her for a moment before thinking better of it.

"You know, that's probably not sanitary. Let's not chew on the arrow," I tell her as I gently pull it away from her. The feathered fletching at the end is now drenched, strands of feather clumping together. The arrow is still connected to her mouth by a thin little strand of drool.

"Ew."

Iris squeaks happily, proud.

First time she rolls over on her own. She's on a pile of smoothed out blankets on the floor, lying on her belly, lifting her head and shoulders up and watching us as we walk around. She has disinterestedly discarded the few toys we have scattered about her blanket. She watches Peeta pass by with a handful of those icing flowers he makes to decorate cakes. As he passes behind her, out of her view, she deftly flips over in one try to follow him, landing on her back with a little, cushioned thud. She lays there for a minute, eyes wide, surprised at her own agility. Peeta gasps happily, smiling.

"Can you do it again?" he picks her up and puts her back on her stomach. She burbles and flips again, grinning up at him.

The first time she laughs. She's on her pile of blankets again. I'm cleaning game at the table. Peeta is trying not to look disgusted as I skin a squirrel. He whips up icing at the far end of the table, as far as he can get from my skinning knife. Haymitch stumbles in, turning up early for lunch as he does often lately. Iris's happy babbling and Peeta's cooking are enough to lure him out of his house for a few hours. As soon as he staggers in, Iris giggles wildly at him. We all stop to stare at her.

"She done that before?" Haymitch growls, questioning.

"No!" Peeta exclaims, giggling almost as much as she. "This is the first time!"

He rushes over, kneeling by the blanket. I watch, knife frozen. Haymitch puts his arms out, palms up, at her. "What?" he sneers and she explodes into high-pitched, infant cackling.

"Is Haymitch funny?" Peeta giggles at her. Haymitch staggers in further, rolling his eyes, taking a swig from his bottle. She laughs even harder and now I can't even contain it. I start cackling with her. My child's first laugh is at the expense of my old, drunk mentor. I cackle with her each time she laughs, which is pretty much every time Haymitch so much as raises an eyebrow.

"Good god, you two even sound the same," Haymitch mutters, and he's right. Even as high-pitched and squeaky as it is, Iris cackles like I do. I put my forehead down on the table, doubled over in silent laughter, scrambling to make my list, afraid to laugh without it being taken away.

The first time she recognizes her own name. Peeta is trying to get her to look at him as he paints. She's sitting with me, little back to me as always.

"Look this way. No, this way. Iris-"

Her little head turns sharply towards him. We both freeze. I try it.

"Iris."

Her head tilts back shakily, little blue eyes staring at me, upside down.

"You know your name now," I tell her, disbelieving.

"Iris," Peeta says, and she looks towards him, squawking like she does, tired of us both asking for her attention. "Okay, I'm sorry, we'll stop," he laughs. I can't do anything but kiss the top of her head, closing my eyes.

The first time she crawls. It's in the evening and she's playing on her pile of blankets once more. One moment, she's wriggling around on her stomach, the next, she's pushed her little body up on her hands and knees. We figure she's just going to stay there and wriggle around for a week before she figures out she can move forward, like most babies do. But not Iris. She has no middle step. She wriggles for a second, testing everything out, and then she's wobbling off the blanket on her hands and knees. She clambers around the table and stops right at Peeta's foot, looking up at him, squeaking. He stands stock still like me, eyes like saucers. She pitches forward and he finally reacts, scooping her up. The day after that is the first day I can't get out of bed before I've made my list for at least an hour. And we're running to catch up with her from then on.

I start learning things about her, learning what she's like. The first thing I learn about her is that she's unquenchably curious. Iris has to know everything about everything. I suspected this watching her even when she was only a few minutes old. Always looking around, trying to take everything in. Now that she's mobile, she has to touch everything. First, we learn to pad all sharp corners in the house. Iris moves quickly and somewhat erratically and often runs into things. The first time she runs headlong into a table leg, I'm frightened out of my mind hearing her cries behind me. She's immediately in my arms. I dry her tiny tears with the pad of my thumb while Peeta bandages the little scrape on her forehead. Haymitch unhelpfully asks a few collisions later, "Do you think maybe she's afflicted? She runs into things an awful lot. Didn't inherit mom's coordination, did ya, kid?"

We scowl and pad everything at baby-level.

After Iris tips over a full bottle of Haymitch's expensive white liquor, Peeta gives her a bath to get the alcohol smell off of her, and I comb the house, getting everything she could get into off the floor. It prevents some mishaps and some of the crying. Although, she never cries for very long. That is the second thing I learn about her. Iris is tough. All babies cry and she is no exception, but her crying is seldom and she bounces back quickly. She picks herself back up easily. There's a sharp bit of crying from initial shock, a split second of contact from me, or a flash of full-out coddling from Peeta, and then she's wriggling, anxious to get moving again. I think Peeta wishes he could coddle her more. She does enjoy the attention, especially from Peeta, but when she's ready to move, no one can stop her.

That is the third thing I learn about her. Iris is as stubborn as I am. Of all the characteristics to inherit from me. If Iris is unhappy, everyone knows. If she doesn't want to do something, she'll fight to avoid it. She lands a decent kick on my cheekbone on a day that she is particularly adamant about not wearing her socks as she wriggles and screams. Though, to her credit, she stops when I freeze and stare her down. She quiets immediately, doesn't look at me, and allows me to put on her socks with no further protest. I know from then on that she's also inherited some of my sense of self-preservation.

If we're holding her and she wants to be clambering around the house, crawling, she'll squirm until we let her down. A few times, she bucks backwards and Peeta and I, whoever has her at the time, almost drop her. But this stubbornness also gives way to a good determination. There is one day that Iris does not rest until she has managed to drag herself upright, clutching the edge of one of our kitchen chairs for dear life. She starts dragging herself around the house like this, running along any steady furniture edge she can find, clutching it with little, pink fingers. Peeta takes to walking her around the house, leaning over, holding her two tiny hands. I like listening to the things he says to her, encouraging her as she unsteadily toddles around with him.

"Come on, let's keep going. Let's go into the studio, okay? You're doing so well, come on."

She grins up at him, cooing, lifting her legs in odd, acute angles like a little frog. Sometimes, when she stumbles, and she whimpers, he holds her up, and murmurs kind words to her.

"It's alright. Learning to walk is hard. I know. I've had some trouble with it, too. But you can do it, come on."

It was worth telling Peeta yes just to be able to watch him with her. I think Peeta may be the best father in the history of the world. He's perfect. He's unwaveringly patient with her. He doesn't seem capable of getting frazzled on nights when she cries for hours on end, whereas I do tend to waver as the night goes on and I can't figure out what's bothering her. He talks to her constantly, trying to teach her everything he can as he goes about his day with her. And he loves her so strongly it's near-painful for me to watch. I often wonder what my daughter thinks of me, especially when she has someone as attentive as Peeta around. Of course I take care of her, I talk to her a lot in the woods. I don't like to think too much about how important she is to me in order to avoid a break-down. But I also know that I am, by nature, a lot quieter and colder than Peeta. I am not naturally nurturing, only protective. I sigh and hope that she doesn't think I'm too distant with her.

This is why I am not surprised when she speaks her first word. She's been babbling syllables for a long while, mimicking Peeta, and sometimes me. But today is different. I'm putting cut blueberries I found out in the woods in front of her. I've cut them so small that they're nearly mush so that she can eat them. She's getting big enough that it's difficult to hunt with her, so on days she stays home, I try to bring her something back from outside. I'm pretty sure blueberries are a favorite, although I'm not so much a fan of them because we have to clean purple juice-stains off of her every time she eats them. She's not the most graceful of babies, and eating is no exception. She gets the stuff everywhere. Peeta walks over to gather the remaining berries to put them in some sort of sweet bread he's concocting. She watches him gather them up, mouth open, the two teeth she has at the bottom sticking out a bit. He chuckles at her.

"Look at you, you're already purple. And how did you get berry juice on your forehead?"

"Talent," I mutter.

He attempts to clean some of the juice off of her with his thumb. She stares at him for a moment before squeaking, "Daa-dee," clearly and simply. Peeta freezes, eyes wide.

"You hear that, Daddy?" I ask him, enjoying watching his reaction. I watch his eyes shine. She repeats it, pointing at him with clumsy fingers. That's when the tears start, which I was expecting. Peeta has that baby in his arms in seconds flat. He's crying and rocking her and she just smiles when he kisses her cheek and repeats the one word she knows. I put my head in my hands, smiling and gritting my teeth.

There is a day every year that I cannot get out of bed. On the good years, Peeta brings me breakfast, lunch, and dinner to my room. On the bad ones, he can barely leave the room because I need him there to prevent me from breaking in half. It is normally the only day of the year that I cry. I know I am not the only one who hates this day. There are so many like me who lost people on this day. I sit in my room and wish the day would end so I can stop seeing exploding parachutes behind my eyes, stop remembering blue eyes and two long, blonde braids, and a little shirt sticking out of an equally tiny skirt like a duck tail. This is the first year with Iris in the house with us. This year Peeta has to leave, and so do I, to be able to take care of her. I force myself out of bed. I'm shaking and the tears are already flowing as I follow him to the door. Peeta shakes his head.

"No, Katniss, get back in bed."

"No. I can't let you by your-"

"Yes. Come on," he leads me back over to our bed, puts me in it, draws the quilt up to my shoulders. "We'll be fine by ourselves," he assures me quietly.

"Promise me you'll come get me if you need help or she needs something."

"I promise. But I think we'll be alright on our own. I'll bring you breakfast soon."

He sadly kisses my forehead, and smoothes my hair back a little, and makes sure I have a handkerchief in my hand before he leaves.

This is always the longest day of the year. If I fall asleep, I wake up from a nightmare. If I stay awake, my consciousness is a waking one. Peeta always makes my favorite foods on this day of the year, in a feeble attempt to make it a little better. He never makes it in high volumes, though, because he knows there's a good possibility that it'll remain untouched, getting cold on the bedside table. This year, I try to eat a little, just because I know I should. Everything tastes dry and papery in my mouth. I cry myself back to sleep in mid-morning, only to wake up in the afternoon thrashing about, legs tangled in my bed sheets. I hear Iris crying downstairs and feel immensely guilty in addition to the crushing ache I feel every year on this day. I comfort myself with the fact that she'll stop soon, thankful that she's a tough little thing and will probably be crawling around by Peeta in minutes. Except she doesn't. She keeps crying. She hasn't cried this long since she was only a few weeks old. I hear Peeta trying doggedly to calm her, can hear his warm voice murmuring to her. But she doesn't quiet. She keeps going, for at least an hour. I don't know how long she was crying when I was asleep. She always calms down for Peeta. It's me who can't calm her sometimes. There must be something wrong and Peeta, trying so hard to make this day as easy as possible for me, won't come tell me. My limbs feel like lead, like they're glued to my mattress, but I move them anyway. I can't leave him alone with her. I drag myself down the hall, head hanging. I clutch the rail by the stairs like it's a lifeline, but I force myself down the stairs.

I hear her cries get louder as I continue. She keeps saying something through the high-pitched crying. It may be nonsense syllables, but I go ahead and assume it's "daddy," since it's all she knows. She's probably sick, repeating that word over and over, trying to tell him that she feels bad. I've rounded the corner into the kitchen when I distinguish the word she's been repeating over and over.

"Mama," she wails, red-faced, at Peeta. I stop dead, mouth drying instantly.

"I know, I know. You've never gone a day without seeing her, have you? But mama doesn't feel well today, sweetheart," he rocks her sadly. She doesn't relent. She shakes her little head wildly, dark hair like mine shaking with her.

"Mamaaaa," she whines, trailing off into little infant sobs.

"You'll see her tomorrow, little one. But today we need to let her rest. I'm sorry."

He hugs her to him and keeps drying the tears that won't stop. I keep hearing her repeat it, muffled into Peeta's shoulder.

"Mama, I know, I know. I'm worried about her, too." He keeps bouncing her lightly, swaying back and forth.

I lean against the doorframe of the kitchen as that child nearly breaks my heart in two and I cry with her. There is no other day of the year that she could've terrified me so utterly as today. To ask for me when she's never even uttered that word before, and to make it so devastatingly clear how important I am in her little world. To make me remember with a painful sharpness the only other person I've loved this much. She raises her little head from Peeta's shoulder to look at him again. And then she notices me. She squeaks urgently.

"Mama!"

She reaches for me with tiny, wobbly arms. Peeta starts and turns around. His face softens when he sees me sobbing in the doorway.

"She's been saying it since she woke up this morning," he tells me with a sad smile.

"You should've come to get me," I sputter.

"I didn't know how well you would handle it today. You don't seem to be doing so well right now. I was worried about you."

"I'll be fine," I hiccup. As hard as it is for me to even leave my bedroom on this day, it would be harder to watch Iris turn her worried, sad little blue eyes on me and not do anything. She keeps twisting in Peeta's arms, pointing at me and reaching at me. Her thrashing little movement, I've noticed, has made the tail of her little baby shirt pull free. As if the universe is trying to tell me. I would never have left Prim if she needed me. And I shouldn't, and won't, leave her. Prim herself would probably scold me to no end if she found out that I had even stayed in my room for ten minutes while she cried. I cross the room towards her and she keeps repeating her second word, desperate, still red-faced and crying. She makes a muffled little squeal when I finally reach her. I gather her out of Peeta's arms. She buries her tear-covered face in my neck, still wailing.

"Mama," she whimpers, tiny fist clenched around a handful of my shirt.

"Hey, little duck," I murmur to her.

I don't say anything else. I just tuck in the tail of her shirt and sing the same song I've been singing to her since before she was born. Her wailing slows into the little kitten mewls she does. Her hand stays clenched around my shirt.

That is another thing I learn about Iris. No matter how tough she seems, she gets frightened easily where the people she loves are concerned. Like me.

I am shocked when I realize that her first birthday is approaching quickly.

"Peeta. Her birthday. It's in two weeks."

We stare at each other, silent, wide-eyed. Iris lies on her blankets, blissfully oblivious, gnawing on an old, wooden toy I still have from my childhood. I suppose this is what Annie meant when she said everything would fly by. I have just gotten used to my tiny, ruddy, fuzzy, velvet baby and now she's nearly walking. It's been almost a year since I looked down, vision hazy from exhaustion, to see her wailing, lying on my stomach, red-faced and grayish and slippery. Peeta shakes his head, disbelieving. Iris gurgles "daddy," grinning a two-toothed grin at him, upside down. Peeta smiles wistfully back.

"What should we get you for your birthday, Iris?"

"More things to drool on," I provide flatly. Peeta giggles. I crack a smile, too.

"We can each give her something," Peeta suggests, blue eyes brightening like Iris's do sometimes at the prospect. He is obviously unbearably excited about finding something that Iris will appreciate. But I am as well. It's an old tradition in District 12 to put a lot of effort in finding a gift for someone you love that is as meaningful and thoughtful as possible. In a District where starvation used to be uncomfortably acute, the meaning of the gift was always of greater importance than the amount of money spent in acquiring it. I remember being appalled in the Capitol at how expensive trinkets were thrown around, and considered acceptable gifts when little to no thought was put into it. Often people made their gifts themselves. My mother making a dress for Prim for her seventh birthday. My father and Prim together stitching a shooting glove for me when I was young and just learning to shoot. Some of the best gifts a person could give weren't material at all. My father showing me his lake. Prim singing to me in her wavering little voice every birthday. I smile to myself. But I wonder, as small as she is, what Iris would truly appreciate. I think about the things I know she likes. Water. The little wooden cat she chews on now. Colors. Blueberries. Toddling around with Peeta. The lake and the woods. Being with us. I suppose any and all of those things would make her happy.

In the next week, Peeta starts planning a little birthday for her. I tell him we should take her outside for a bit. I can't take her as often as I used to. If she's anything like me, she misses it. He nods agreeing with me. He asks if we preserved any of the blueberries I found just before the first cold snap in the fall. We find a little handful of them, dried and sugared, in our pantry. I have a carving knife in my hand all week. Iris only has a small handful of toys, three or four at most. While I am not of the opinion that she needs a whole chest full of them, like I saw in a few houses we passed through in the Capitol during the siege, a few that she really loves would be nice. I had one I carried with me all the time, the same little cat she chews on all the time. My father carved it when I could scarcely walk. She has a few others, things we picked up around town. A wooden block with the letter "I" on it. A ring made out of rags and tight knots for her to chew on when teeth are coming in. A small, stuffed doll, barely bigger than my hand, similar to the one Prim used to drag around with her. But the one she loves is the little cat. It's scratched up, the tiny carved face worn down with age. The wood is constantly soggy from her infant gnawing. I think she likes it because it's small, it's easy to hold, and it's more interesting than a plain wooden block, or a teething ring. So I work trying to make something like it. Peeta watches me one night as I add details, a little pile of curly, dusty shavings at my elbow.

"You're really good at that."

I shrug. "We used to have to make all of our household tools. Spoons and combs and things. Sometimes things as big as bowls and plates. My father carved the bow I use."

"You could've made that your talent on our tour," he smiles. I think he's excited, from an artist's standpoint, that I show some trace of artistic talent that he didn't know I possessed.

"But it was easier to piggy back off of Cinna. And I didn't really want to share anything like that with the Capitol."

"True. If Portia had let me copy her, I might have. But I'm impressed. I've never been good at carving or sculpting. I'm a bit jealous."

"Peeta, you're an artist for a living. This doesn't come close to the stuff you've made."

"Sure it does. It's done with love."

I roll my eyes, but I smile just the same.

Iris's birthday is a pleasantly warm, temperate day, just like last year. Only last year I was waddling about the house, keyed up and nervous, and twice as round as I was tall. I decide like this a lot better. We cross the hall together to wake Iris. We moved her into her room across the hall when she was around five months old, having outgrown the tiny cradle. She blinks sleepy blue eyes and yawns widely. Peeta gathers her up, grinning.

"It's your birthday, Iris. You're one today, did you know that?"

She yawns again and sleepily peeps one out of four words she knows, which is unintentionally appropriate.

"Cake."

Peeta laughs.

"Smart girl. You'll get cake later, but let's get breakfast first."

I follow Peeta and Iris downstairs. He's already got the oven on. He must've slipped downstairs and put breakfast in before I woke up. I smell sugar and blueberries. If I'm excited about breakfast, Iris must be elated. She proves me right, chirping happily when she smells it. The stuff turns out to be blueberry cobbler. It'll be sweet, and the inside, full of soft blueberries and mushy crust, will be easy for her to eat. She cheerfully makes a mess of it almost immediately. While Peeta goes to find a spoon to feed her with, she beats him to the punch, grabbing a fistful of of the blueberry mush and stuffing it in her mouth, succeeding in getting at least half of said handful on her face and her shirt.

"Don't bother, Peeta," I groan. We are both tired of cleaning purple stains out of her shirts. But if there's a day she should be able to stain everything she's wearing, it's today. We let her happily feed herself, getting it absolutely everywhere. She's messy enough by the time she's done that we have to give her a bath and re-dress her. Iris just giggles about it all. She relishes getting messy. I foresee a lot of grass stains and mud puddles in our future. I make a mental note not to dress her in white again until she's at least fifteen when she'll have the presence of mind not to stain all of her clothes.

Once she's clean and dressed again, we head outside with her. We spot Haymitch stumbling around the pen where he keeps his geese. He waves us over wordlessly.

"Happy birthday, little bugger," he growls at Iris with a thin smile.

"Haymitch, don't teach her that word," Peeta admonishes. Haymitch grins wickedly.

"Don't encourage him," I tell Peeta. "He'd love for her to start repeating that word and I'd rather not hear it parroted around our house for the next week."

"Both of you shut up and bring the kid over here. Sit down on the porch with her."

"Why?"

"Just do it," Haymitch sneers at me. I do sit with Iris in my lap, against my better judgement. Haymitch staggers over to us with something cupped between his enclosed palms, one hand on top of the other. He kneels down by Iris and opens them. A fuzzy yellow and black gosling pops out, sitting wriggly but content, in his palm. Iris stares for a moment, unsure what to make of the little thing. She tentatively reaches a wavering, chubby hand towards it. Haymitch takes her hand, steadying it, and runs it over the gosling's downy head. Iris squeals happily, giggling.

"Hatched this morning. He's got the same birthday as you, kid," Haymitch tells her. She continues to grin, looking between him and the gosling.

"She likes him," Peeta smiles. And indeed she does. Iris is beside herself over the gosling. She won't stop grinning. The next thing I know, I'm sitting cross-legged on the porch, Iris still in my lap, with a bumbling gaggle of the gosling's brothers and sisters waddling around me. I let one nibble playfully on my finger, my other hand making sure Iris is contained enough that her wild, gleeful movements don't catch any stray goslings. Peeta seems nearly as immersed as she. He's got one of them padding around on his leg, little black, webbed feet splayed. He keeps picking them up and putting them in front of Iris. At one point, I make sure to hold her hands as he puts one in her lap. She squeals and the gosling feebly honks back, clambering around on her chubby legs. Eventually, Haymitch rounds all the little goslings back up, putting them back in their pen. Iris looks mildly upset that the goslings are gone, but Haymitch still has the one in his hand, so she's content. In her excitement, she points to the gosling and peeps, "cake!" for the second time today. Haymitch laughs a loud, wheezing laugh.

"It's one of the only words she knows," I explain, defending her.

"No, that's a goose, Iris. Goose," Peeta tells her.

"Cake!"

"Is that what we should name him?" Haymitch asks her, still wheezing with laughter.

"Cake!"

"Guess so. We'll call this one Cake," he rasps, pointing to the gosling. Iris grins. We get up to continue towards the woods with Iris. She gives the gosling a final giggle and Peeta smiles at Haymitch.

"Thank you, Haymitch. That was really nice."

"I thought she'd like them," he grumbles grudgingly.

"She did," I smile. "Thanks."

He nods once and we're off to the woods with her. I take her to the lake. It looks the same as it did last year. Plants all getting ready to blossom, water peaceful and glittering in the sun. The same rogue iris plant from last year has gone ahead and blossomed early. I can't help but smile when I see it. I sit down with her in the grass, near the waterline, right next to it. I pluck one of the petals and hold it next to her eyes.

"Yup. Still just as blue," I smile at her. Iris likes the color of the plant she was named for. She watches the petal as I hold it up to her.

"Do you mind if I give her her present now?" Peeta asks.

"Go ahead," I tell him, curious. Peeta pulls out a sketchpad from the bag we brought. But it's a different sort of one than I usually see him with. The paper is thick, the sheets are large. He pulls out a set of little, covered bowls.

"What is it?" I ask as he begins uncovering them.

He smiles.

"Edible paint."

"She's going to go ballistic. It's perfect."

"I knew she'd end up trying to eat it, so I figured I'd make it taste good. It's a good thing you dressed her in brown. Iris come here, look at this."

Peeta lifts her into his lap, propping the sketch pad, which I realize is filled with thick, absorbent paper used for water-based paints, in front of both of them.

"Will you fill this with water?" he asks, holding up a lone, empty bowl. I oblige, filling it half-way with lake water.

"Iris, watch." He dips her pudgy hand in a bowl of bright orange, her favorite color. He presses her hand against the paper for a moment, and then peels it away. She stares, open-mouthed, as an orange handprint is revealed. He puts her hand in water, rinsing it, before dipping it in red. Iris loves warm colors. He puts another handprint on, overlapping the orange a little. She squeals when he moves her hand, revealing a second, scarlet handprint, and a red-orange section where the handprints overlap.

"You like it?" he grins at her. She babbles at him, elated. She chirps "daddy," somewhere in there. The subsequent hour is a free-for-all. Iris paints with abandon, smearing paint everywhere. Most gets on the page, but a decent amount gets on her face, on her clothes (as always), and some on Peeta's pants. He patiently grimaces at the purple and red that ends up on them. She gets frustrated at first when she mixes too many colors on the paper and it all turns brown. Peeta patiently turns over that page, showing her a fresh piece of paper. She learns quickly. That's another thing about her. Iris is quick-witted. She figures things out as she goes and does it with lightning speed. She learns that some colors, when mixed, transform into new ones. She learns which ones compliment each other. My favorite page in her little book is an infant smear of greens and blues. Her baby-art isn't half bad. She's quite creative until she puts her hands in her mouth and realizes the paint tastes good. Then, she proceeds to eat most of the rest of it. Peeta giggles the whole time as she abandons her craft and crams paint-covered fingers in her mouth. Peeta manages to wrestle it away from her before she makes herself sick. She squawks the fourth and final word she knows.

"No."

"Sorry, paint-time is over. No exceptions," Peeta insists.

"No!"

"Yes," I grumble. "I'm not cleaning vomit out of your clothes in addition to paint."

_"No!"_

"Come here, you," I growl, snatching her out of Peeta's arms and away from the paints. She's on the verge of a tantrum when I give her what Peeta calls "the look." He says it's the same look I have when I'm tracking game, when I'm about to shoot, or when I've been challenged. I assume it's the same look Haymitch warned her about. I don't really know what it looks like, but Peeta says my chin juts up, my lips thin out, my teeth clench, and my eyes, as he put it, are like steel. Iris gives me a few half-hearted whimpers, but she quells the tantrum. Peeta laughs.

"You're a good mother, but a scary one sometimes."

"Sorry," I mutter.

"No, it's a good thing. She'd be all over the place if you weren't here."

"Come on," I tell her. "You're supposed to be having fun, not having tantrums."

I suddenly have an idea. I think Iris likes water. But other than shallow baths in our kitchen sink, she hasn't been exposed to it much.

"We're going swimming," I tell her. I toe off my boots. Peeta's eyebrows shoot up when I sit her down for a minute and strip down to my underwear. Even having lived with him for sixteen years, I'm still a fairly modest person. But today I don't care. Today is supposed to be a good day and I'm going to make sure it stays that way. I peel off Iris's paint-covered shirt, leaving her in her little trousers. She's still whimpering as I start walking towards the water with her sitting on my hip.

"You coming or not?" I ask Peeta. He's jarred into motion by my question and he follows soon after, also in his underclothes. I wade into the water, stopping at waist-height. Iris's whimpers have stopped. Instead she stares, wide-eyed, all around.

"See? There are better things to do than eat paint," I say. Peeta comes up behind us.

"Does she like it?"

"I'm not sure. She seems more shocked than anything else. What happened to my little tadpole?" I ask her.

"Come on, Iris, you like water. Look," Peeta splashes around her playfully. She blinks a few times before a hesitant smile creeps onto her face.

"That's it. Quit worrying about the paint and have fun in the lake," I tell her. She is fascinated by it, although sometimes I'm not sure if she likes it or not. I suppose it's a little too much unknown for her to take in sometimes. She squeaks when a few stray minnows dart around her feet, smiling. A few tickle my leg, too, and I smile with her. Eventually, she gets used to it and she's waving her little hands around in the water, watching it move. Although I know it is the unintentional product of her waving her clumsy little fists, she manages to splash me straight in the face once. She giggles wildly as I cough and shake my head, my hair now dripping.

"Oh, that's funny?"

She keeps giggling at me as water drips into my eyes from my hair. I gently dump a handful of water over her dark little head. It's not much, as I don't want to scare her. She sputters a little, blinking rapidly, lightly startled. Drops of water cling to her soft little eyelashes. She seems annoyed that I've retaliated. I can't help but start laughing at the clear indigence on her tiny face. She joins me after a few hesitant giggles. She shrieks that high, infant cackle she does. She continues to send splashing water my way now that she's figured out how to do it. I always flick a little bit back at her, although I'm always careful not to go overboard and frighten her. Peeta watches us, looking as if his face will crack in two, he's grinning so hard. I suppose I look similar when Iris's laughing slows and she just stares straight through me, grinning like mad, corners of her little blue eyes wrinkled as they twinkle like Peeta's do. She tangles her clumsy fingers midway up my braid, pulling herself a little closer to me.

"Mama," she chirps, another stray giggle escaping her. She doesn't stop smiling, showing her two tiny teeth on the bottom.

"Yeah, I'm having fun, too," I assure her, still a bit overwhelmed by the amount of trust and love in her eyes. She giggles at me once more, round, happy face still staring. We all stay in the lake until Iris gets a little waterlogged. We climb out and lie in the tall grass, letting the sun's gentle heat dry us. I make sure not to let Iris stay in direct sunlight for too long, though, for fear that even gentle, early-spring sun like this might burn her soft skin. Peeta dozes off for a while, a smile on his face even in sleep, obviously elated. I let him as I watch the sky turn from blue to that same orange he loves. Iris giggles at him as a fly buzzes around him lazily and his nose twitches in sleep. She points to him, squeaking "Daddy" as she often does, looking back at me for reassurance.

"That's right."

She turns her little finger towards me.

"Mama."

I suppose she wants to make sure I know she understands.

"Very good. And you," I pause to pluck a blossom off that one, rogue iris plant right next to us, "are Iris." I show her the bright blue blossom. She looks up at me when she hears her name.

"Iris," I repeat. "That's you," I point at her. She sits, looking at me for a moment before she clumsily points to herself.

"That's right, my smart little duck."

Peeta smiles wider, obviously drifting out of unconsciousness.

"She is a smart little thing, isn't she?"

"She is. Good thing, too, because it would've been highly annoying if you were dull," I joke at her. Peeta laughs. Iris gets a little bored with us and starts plucking petals off the iris blossom I'm still holding.

"Hey, I have something better for you to play with," I tell her. Peeta sits up, interest piqued. I reach in each of my pockets and pull out what I've been working on for the past two weeks. Two little carved toys, the same basic size as the little cat she loves, each standing about the height of my palm. Only, I've carved these both out of bone from a buck I managed to bring down a few weeks ago. I figure it'll last longer than wood, and it'll definitely avoid getting soggy like the little cat, which will make it easier to clean. Plus, I'm paranoid that her chewing on that little cat will result in splinters. The first is a tiny, wide-eyed tree frog that lives around here, the kind my father used to call a spring peeper, named for the chirping sounds they make. It has round eyes, and small, spread-out feet that nearly look like hands. The carved frog sits in my palm, back legs folded under, front feet splayed flat, looking curiously with bright eyes. The other is a fuzzy duckling, with small webbed feet just like the goslings we saw earlier today. It stands as if having stopped mid-waddle, legs far apart and clumsy, wings folded, little, curved neck extended as curiously as the little frog. And it's got a little, curly tail sticking out in the back. I place one on each of her chubby legs.

"For my little tadpole," I set the frog down, and then the duckling, "and my little duck."

She stares at them for a moment before taking one in each hand. She immediately pops the frog's head in her mouth as she stares at the duckling, waving it around in her other fist.

"I think they're a hit," Peeta chuckles. "They're beautifully done."

I just smile, watching her switch the two as she gnaws on a carved, webbed foot and clutches the frog for dear life. She eventually dozes off with one in each hand, passed out against the crook of my arm.

"I guess that means she had a good day," I mutter.

"I'm pretty certain she did. We should take her home, though."

"Yeah. Come on, sleepy."

We cart an exhausted Iris back from the woods in a green-blue twilight. We wonder whether to wake her to eat dinner, but we decide against it. She can be terribly volatile when woken up, and she'll likely scream instead of eating, especially as tired as she is. She barely stirs when Peeta lowers her into the crib in her butter-yellow room. We slip quietly out of her room, Peeta's heavier steps before my silent ones. We aren't up for very long after her. Just enough to eat dinner. There's a little cake Peeta made just for Iris. We decide we'll give it to her tomorrow since she fell asleep before she could make a mess of it tonight. Just before we go to bed, I slip silently back in her room. Peeta follows after a minute.

"Katniss? What is it?" he murmurs quietly and a little worriedly as I stand staring down into her crib.

"It's 11:57."

He smiles, understanding. Iris was born at 11:57.

"She's officially a year old, then."

I nod wordlessly. I think back to my hazy memory of her from last year, dulled by exhaustion and left-over pain. A tiny, pink-red, wailing little thing. Her hair is longer now, her skin a lot less ruddy and thin. She's a bit chubbier than she was, small, flopping newborn limbs growing into stockier, toddler ones. But some things are the same as last year. Her face is just as sweet, eyes just as blue. Peeta is still beside me, as close as he can get, still completely in love with her. I was right. He never has looked away from her since the moment he saw her. I am still staring down at her, just as disbelieving. And I am still not aware that I am crying until Peeta dries my tears.

"Can I ask you something?" he asks hesitantly.

"Yes," I answer, wondering what he's hesitant about.

"I know we're only a year in. But, so far...you're glad you said yes. Real or not real?"

I know Peeta doesn't really need to know if this is indeed real. He's only ever asked one more question the same way. I suppose he just likes to ask the important questions this way, just in case. The corner of my mouth twitches up.

"Real."

_**Hope you all enjoyed! Thank you all for the lovely reviews from last time! I'm done with finals, and they made that last stretch much better, haha. A few of you have been asking how much I'm going to cover in this story. I don't want to give too much away, but rest assured, this story isn't ending anytime soon. If you enjoyed this chapter, or have any thoughts, do pop by and leave a review! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	11. Chapter 11

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing at all! **_

"Dammit," I mutter under my breath. It is a phrase I'm using with increasing frequency as Iris continues to grow and as she becomes more capable. Unfortunately for Peeta and me, her becoming more capable doesn't mean we get a tiny, helping hand around the house. It means wondering how a bowl is suddenly broken, why the flowers that Peeta carefully planted lay bruised and uprooted in our backyard, why there's a dead squirrel missing from the myriad of game hooks in our pantry, and why Haymitch's geese are honking indignantly across the green in the Victor's Village. Peeta sighs a long-suffering sigh.

All this mayhem is the direct cause of two events. First, Iris learns to walk on her own. Peeta and I cheerfully watch her toddle her first steps by herself across our kitchen. The walking gives way to running in only a few weeks. I'm not sure whether it's because she's small enough to dart around corners, or she's tiny enough to fit in small spaces and hide from me, or whether she really is that fast, but after Iris learns to run, she's damn-near impossible to catch. It's like trying to outrun and ensnare a slippery little fox. The second problem: Iris learns to climb. The first thing she does is climb out of her crib and deposit herself on our bed in the middle of the night. I wake up to Peeta's hushed giggling.

"Katniss?"

I grunt at him because I know it isn't morning and I'm exhausted from trying to keep up with my unruly child.

"Katniss?"

I scowl.

"What?"

"Look."

"Peeta, this better be good-"

I open my eyes to find two little blue ones staring right back at me, and two tiny teeth glinting from a wobbly, drooling, infant grin.

"Mama!"

I scowl further.

"Peeta, why did you bring her in here?"

"I didn't."

"Then how did she get out of her crib and in here?"

"I don't know."

"I thought I had a year before this started happening," I growl. Iris continues to grin, unperturbed by my frustration. I snatch her up and march her back to her room, plunking her down in her crib. I walk back out, not quite shutting the door. I watch through the crack, trying to figure out how she got out. She stands in her crib, hands clutching the wooden slats. She doesn't move for a few minutes. Then, in only a few moves, she shimmies up the bars, over the edge, and lets herself drop, landing with a thud on the floor. She toddles over to the door, climbs on a box she's put under the door, twists the door knob, and opens it.

"Mama!"

I groan and pick her up, heading back into our room.

"Good news! She climbs now!" I snipe sarcastically. Peeta looks as if he's not sure if he wants to smile or despair. He settles on a smile when she chirps, "Daddy!"

"You can sleep in here tonight because I'm too tired to figure out how to barricade you in your room," I tell her. "But tomorrow you're sleeping in your room."

I put her in the middle, sandwiched between the two of us. She giggles and drools happily. Peeta smiles wider as she grins up at him.

"It isn't so bad, her being in here. She could stay a few nights. She slept in here when she was just born, right?"

I sigh.

"Peeta, it isn't that I don't want her. It's that I don't want to scare her. My nightmares were alright when she was a baby because half the time she started crying before I did and I woke up before the screaming started. The few times she heard me, she forgot about it because she was too little to remember it for more than a few seconds. She didn't understand it the way she will now. We can't. It's bad enough that she probably hears it from across the hall."

Peeta nods grudgingly. I sigh when she grabs my hand in both of her tiny, pudgy ones and smiles.

"I'm sorry, little duck." She grins, happily oblivious. Soon, she drifts off, one hand in Peeta's, the other tangled in my braid. I follow soon after, hoping with everything I have that I don't have a nightmare tonight.

I don't have a nightmare. I wake up to Iris chirping happily with Peeta. Peeta grins at me.

"You didn't have a nightmare."

"No. And that's an exception to the rule."

Peeta hesitates before speaking again.

"Maybe...maybe you didn't because she was in here."

"Maybe. It's not a theory I want to test, though."

But it doesn't matter what we do. Iris has learned to climb and to run and she breaks out of her room every night without fail. That isn't the worst of our worries, though. It's everything else she gets into during the day that is the problem. Iris is terribly unruly. None of it is malicious. She doesn't cause trouble intentionally. But cause trouble she does, just in her day-to-day exploring. It is extremely difficult to keep track of her. Of course Peeta and I try our best to make sure she is in our line of sight at all times. But my child is wicked fast. I'm staring at her as she climbs one of our kitchen chairs. I look down for a second at my skinning knife, and when I look back, she's disappeared. Peeta seems just as nonplussed as I am.

"She was-"

"Right there. I know. Dammit."

Fortunately, Iris may be fast, but she is not quiet by any stretch of the imagination. All we have to do is listen for a moment and we soon figure out what general direction she's gone off to and, often, what she's gotten into. Sometimes it's a crash from the second floor. Peeta gathers up the broom and dust bin and marches tiredly upstairs. Sometimes it's a thud in the next room. Peeta sighs and moves in that direction to see what piece of furniture she's knocked over. We have a system worked out. If she's inside, Peeta deals with her. If she's outside, it's my job, because if she's managed to get loose, I'm the only one with any hope of catching her. So, on the day that we hear the geese honking outside, and notice the bruised flowers and the missing squirrel, I sprint out the door immediately in hopes of catching her before she wreaks more havoc. I'm at Haymitch's in a flash.

"Iris!" I bark when I see him clutching her, squirming. She wilts a little at my tone, ducking her head.

"I believe this belongs to you," he growls, holding her out towards me. If I weren't so exasperated with her, I might laugh. She's dangling unceremoniously in his arms, covered in brown dirt clods, holding that dead squirrel's tail in her fist.

"Haymishh!" she squeaks. She can't pronounce the last part of his name yet, but she knows who he is.

"It knows me _and_ it knows where I live. Super," he hisses.

"She just likes you," I huff, snatching my dirt-covered child from him. "I bet this was for Haymitch, wasn't it?" I ask her, prying the squirrel's tail from her clenched fist. In truth, I have no idea why Iris has decided to make off with one of my squirrels. I just know that suggesting that she was going to deposit it on Haymitch's front step will annoy him.

"Still want it?" I dangle it near him. He scowls darkly and swats my hand away.

"You need to figure out how to keep that kid in line," he snaps.

"You think I don't know that? She's slowly destroying the house! You should see it! We can't even keep her in her room!"

"Kid needs to be kept on a leash-"

"Haymitch," I growl back, warning him. I'm not oblivious. I know that I'm having trouble controlling my child. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let Haymitch talk about her like that, either.

"Mad," Iris peeps tentatively. I grit my teeth, deflating a bit. She's worried because we're obviously peeved with her. Haymitch doesn't seem bothered.

"Just figure it out and figure it out soon, sweetheart, before she gets herself into real trouble."

I turn on my heel and stride briskly across to my house without another word, Iris in tow. She stares at me, eyes wide, obviously intimidated by my frustration.

"Bad?"

I look down to see a little finger pointing clumsily at her chest. I wilt further. Iris is learning more words and, unfortunately, due to her curious escapades, 'mad,' and 'bad' are two of them. My child is asking me if she's bad.

"No, little duck. Not you. This," I hold the squirrel up, "was bad." I round the corner behind the house and grimace. The yard is a mess of wilting flowers and dirt. "This was bad. What you did was pretty bad. But _you_ are not bad. Not you," I point at her, shaking my head. "This," I point out at the flowers and at the squirrel. "Do you understand?"

She nods clumsily. I have no way of knowing if she really gets it. I can only fervently hope that she doesn't think that she's bad. Of course, I also fervently hope she understands that tearing through Peeta's garden and dashing off to Haymitch's with one of my squirrels to terrorize his geese was not something to repeat. I trudge back inside with her.

"How bad is the garden?" Peeta asks warily.

"Remember what it looked like before you started taking care of it?"

"There wasn't a garden before I started taking care of it."

"Exactly."

Peeta groans. I sigh and sit Iris down on the little wooden high chair Peeta brought home before she was born.

"We've got to do something about this," I tell him as I put the bedraggled squirrel back on its game hook.

"I was thinking that. But she's not quite old enough to understand rules, is she?"

"I'm don't know. We can make them, and we should, but I'm never sure how much she understands. But this," I nod sharply towards the scarred garden, "can't keep happening."

Peeta nods. He crosses the kitchen to kneel in front of Iris's chair.

"Iris, what's going on? You've always been active, but not destructive. What's making you act out like this?" he asks, half to her, half to himself. She whimpers a little at him, tiny eyebrows furrowed.

"Your kid is bored."

I turn to see Haymitch staggering through our kitchen door.

"If you're here to tell me more about how we need to keep her in line, you can turn around and walk right back out that door," I snap. Haymitch laughs a rough, grating laugh, unfazed.

"Well, you do need to keep her in line. But she's acting out because she's bored."

Peeta scowls lightly. "How do you know?"

Haymitch rolls his eyes at our suspicion.

"Boy, no kid who is occupied goes and destroys a garden and bludgeons my geese with a dead squirrel."

"Well, if you're going to complain and tell me what you think is wrong with her, why don't you tell me how to fix it?" I mutter, hostile.

"Find other kids for her to play with?" Haymitch suggests, staring at me as if I'm slow.

"Haymitch, if you haven't noticed, District 12 has a population of about eight hundred. Maybe a third of them have children. And none of them live near us. We don't _know_ anyone with a baby her age."

"Then _you_ occupy her. Figure. It. Out," he insists, still staring at me as if I'm stupid. I eye my skinning knife, tempted.

"We do try to occupy her, Haymitch," Peeta sighs.

"Try harder."

"Peeta tries harder than you ever would," I bark. "And what made you the expert on babies? What makes you think you know everything?"

Haymitch brushes off my question with a final roll of his eyes.

"I don't know everything, I just know more than you."

With that, he staggers back out our kitchen door. I sit back down and pick up where I left off with my skinning knife. I say nothing. All I can think about is how I wish District 12 were as large as it used to be. I remember tearing through the Seam when I was very small, playing around with neighbor children. At least, I did before my father died. When I still smiled at home. There was always a rag-tag bunch of olive-skinned, grey-eyed, wild-haired, grimy children to dart around with. We'd hide under rickety front porches, roll around in the grass in the meadow, chase squirrels and butterflies, come home covered in a layer of dirt, grass-stains, and coal dust, bringing weedy, wilted wildflowers for our parents. I was quiet and very serious even then. But I did still smile and play and have people to play with. And my daughter doesn't. I know there are children here, and maybe even a few her age. But I don't know who they are. I can't very well go around the District, knocking on peoples' doors and sizing up their families. Peeta simply and eloquently murmurs exactly what I would say to her if I had the same way with words.

"I'm sorry, little one. It's not fair. I wish you had a hundred other babies to play with. You should be able to have so many friends when you get a little older. But where we live, there's just so few people. There aren't many children. And that's part of why babies like you are so precious to us. But it doesn't make it easier. It looks like you're stuck with just mama and me. We'll try harder to play with you more. We're new at this, so we're going to mess up a little bit. But I know nothing we do will fix it completely and I'm sorry."

I don't know how much Iris understands, but she seems to know that Peeta is saying kind and important things to her. She soberly murmurs, "Daddy." He kisses her forehead. I keep looking down at my knife.

We try, as time goes on, to keep Iris as occupied as possible, incorporating her into our everyday tasks. Peeta starts letting her "help" him with orders. If he's baking cookies, he gives her a little section of the dough and lets her knead it and play around with it. He always bakes whatever amorphous blob she turns out and splits the blob cookie with her. If he's icing a cake, he lets her "ice" a little section, guiding her clumsy hands as she grasps a blunt, flat icing knife in both fists. He goes and smoothes it back out later when she's not looking. She paints with him, now, too. He keeps making those edible paints, although thankfully she doesn't attempt to eat them much anymore like she did on her birthday. Peeta's studio is littered with her smeared, colorful finger painting.

I try to figure out how to get her back out to the woods with me. She seems like a restless sort of person. She's probably as fed up of being cooped up inside as I was when I was housebound. She's really too big and too heavy for me to wear on my front anymore, so I start trying to figure out how to wear her on my back. The wrap is too small now. I stitch something together out of buck hide, fur lining the inside of it so it's soft and warm. I build it so there's lacing on the sides that can be tightened and loosened, so it'll grow with her. If I have it my way, this'll have her coming outside with me until she's old enough that she can pick through the woods next to me without any danger or trouble. When I think it's finished, I get Peeta to help me test it out. I swing it onto my back, the two leathery straps crisscrossing across my chest, the thick, reinforced pouch against my spine.

"Peeta, put her in here. I want to see if it works."

"Is it safe?" he asks tentatively, eyeing it warily. I roll my eyes.

"I don't know, that's why we're testing it."

"But, what if it doesn't hold?"

"That's why you're there, so you can catch her."

Peeta doesn't look happy, but he obliges. He scoops her up out of her chair, and eases her into the pack on my back. Her little legs stick out of two holes at the bottom and she curls them close to me, feet resting on my hips.

"Tighten the laces if there's too much space."

Peeta does as I ask, still supporting her weight. Once he's adjusted the thing, he cautiously moves his hand away and I feel her weight settle on my back. The thing holds, strong. I bounce around a little bit, I walk in a few circles around the lower level of our house, testing it further. When I get back to the kitchen, I smile over my shoulder at her.

"You want to go outside, Iris?"

Little blue eyes light up.

"Woods!"

"That's right. You want to go?"

She nods her shaky little nod and with that, we're both out the door, Iris resting her cheek between my shoulder blades.

We watch her grow, watch her little arms and legs steady a bit, watch her eyes sharpen with understanding, listen to her begin to string sentences together and ask questions. The questions are constant. Her thirst to know things keeps growing. Every trip into the woods is a lesson to her. She wants to know every plant, every tree, every animal. She wants to know what they're called, what they're like, where they live. I watch her progress from pointing and squeaking at things to being able to ask in her halting, toddler voice, "What's that?" She shocks me with how quickly and thoroughly she memorizes things. I point out plants and she repeats their names from over my shoulder, little voice right by my ear.

"Lily!" she squeaks when I point to the lilypads in the shallows of the lake. I move on, always silently pointing, Iris following with the plant's name, with fuzzy, toddler pronunciation.

"Laurel. Foxtail. Violet. Groundnut."

"Can you eat that one?"

She pauses for a moment.

"Yes!" she exclaims gleefully when she remembers.

"That's right. What about that one?"

"Wild onion. Yes!"

"Good. What about those?"

I point over to a bush with dark, crimson red berries. Nightlock. Iris shakes her head vigorously.

"No, bad!"

"That's right. And what's this one?" I point to a leafy, green one with pointed leaves. Iris grins brightly.

"Mama!"

"Well, that's not what it's called, but you're right," I laugh. "Do you remember what it's called?"

"Katniss. Your name," she points at me with tiny, pudgy fingers.

"Very good. And where are you?"

She points to long, blade-shaped leaves that don't currently harbor flowers.

"Iris. By mama," she smiles widely, noticing that the two plants are right next to each other. I smile softly back for a moment.

"That's right, little duck."

Once we're done gathering and naming plants, we go hunting. Iris is old enough now that she usually stays quiet when I tell her to. Of course, if she's too tired, she'll melt down, but the tantrums are relatively few.

"Okay, we're hunting now. What does that mean?"

Iris puts a finger to her lips.

"Shh."

"That's right. We have to be very quiet."

Today, Iris is silent. The only way I know she's still there is the warm weight of her on my back and her quiet, small breath on my neck.

I take down a small handful of squirrels pretty easily, check my traps for rabbits. Then we spot a little trail of disturbed leaves and broken brush, and some shallow footprints in the soil under the cover of leaves.

"Aminal!" Iris whispers to me. I nod. I turn around and she's pointing off in the direction the little trail leads. I nod again, silently and vigorously, smiling mutedly. She's good.

Lucky for Peeta, it's a turkey. I bring it down easily, as turkeys aren't all that quick. It's deer that'll run off if the wind changes too much. I manage to stuff the massive bird in my game bag, and heft it onto my shoulder.

"Alright, little duck, we're done for today."

"Found a turkey. Go to town."

"You got it," I chuckle.

People in town expect Iris with me now. She's with me nearly every trip. She likes to see everyone. She always chirps a cheerful, "Hi!" to every person we visit. She has definitely inherited Peeta's brightness. Sometimes I marvel how, at almost two, she manages to be more sociable than me. People often give her small things when we come by. Flowers, little pieces of sweets. Sae always has a small piece of candy for her. I do ask Sae to keep it small. Iris's penchant for hyperactivity doesn't mix well with sugar. Peeta and I figured that out giving her cake the day after her first birthday. It's not an experience we remember with much enthusiasm. Iris is always impossibly excited with whatever people have for her. There's always a light, enthusiastic "Thank you!" from her, and a wide grin. My child is a joyful little thing. So much so that it hurts sometimes to watch her. But it is infectious. Even I can't help but smile my muted, close-mouthed smile when she grins.

Her second birthday comes even faster than the first. Her dark hair that was once stick-straight now has a very subtle wave in it, a little whisper of Peeta's curls. It hangs just below her chin. She's big enough to run around the meadow by the fence on her own while we sit in the tall grass and watch her. Sometimes she climbs halfway up the fence before Peeta panics and plucks her off, planting her back on solid ground. After her second birthday, though, things get a little more rocky. We expect the tantrums that often crop up when children turn two and Iris is no exception. If anything, her tantrums are particularly fierce. She can be a vengeful, angry thing if she wants to be. Another unfortunate trait she's inherited from me. Her fits are violent, but they pass quickly. As long as she's not throwing anything, Peeta and I stubbornly ignore her until she quiets. If she starts getting destructive, I snatch her up, deposit her outside in the green in the Victor's Village, and sit on the front porch until she's kicked and squealed and ripped out grass to her satisfaction. I say nothing to her; I just stare, hard, at her until she realizes that she'll get nowhere continuing like this. This is one thing I seem to be good at with her. I am just as obstinate as she is and it doesn't take long for me to quiet her when she's having a fit. She can't out-stubborn me.

Things get even more interesting when toilet training comes into the mix. Peeta handles that. I realize the first time I try to get her to use a real toilet that I am doomed to fail from the start. I am not the most patient teacher, although I try my best. I stammer and shrug and don't understand what she doesn't understand. Peeta, on the other hand, is flawless. He has her pretty much toilet trained in a week. I have no idea what the norm is and probably do not give Peeta half credit he's due, because Sage seems to think it's some sort of miracle. All I know is that I'm glad to be free of all the diapers.

But these things are hardly an issue compared to the questions. Iris keeps asking questions and they get more difficult as she gets older and understands more. It is the questions that I flounder with. Some are just things we didn't anticipate her wondering about. These are just a matter of figuring out what to tell her. There is one afternoon that Haymitch is with us for lunch. Iris turns her little blue gaze on me and asks me, "Haymitch is your daddy?"

All of us freeze and eye each other, gazes flitting from one person to another. No one is really sure how to proceed. Iris thinks that Haymitch is her grandfather. Peeta has just explained the concept of grandparents to her the day before. She thinks he's family which, in a lot of ways, he is. But we haven't thought about what to tell her. What should she call him? How should she relate to him? Should we just tell her he is family, or make the distinction that he's a close friend of mine and Peeta's? We're all scrambling to figure it out without openly discussing it in front of her. Peeta is the one who recovers first.

"I think this one is your prerogative, Haymitch," he murmurs. Iris doesn't seem to hear. "Tell her whatever you're comfortable with."

Haymitch reverts back to an alcohol-aided nonchalance.

"Nah, I'm not your mama's daddy, sweetheart. I'm-" he swirls the contents of his bottle around a few times, thinking. "Her uncle," he finishes, shrugging apathetically. I huff a little at his made-up relation to me, but since it does make it simpler to explain to her, I don't make much of a fuss.

"Uncle Haymitch?" she asks, looking at us to confirm it.

"Sure, kid," he growls before taking a swig from the quickly emptying bottle.

Some questions, though, are much harder to answer, especially when she learns to ask "why?" The day she stares at both of Peeta's legs and pipes, "Different. Why?" we stare at each other, silent. Peeta nods once, determined, and speaks.

"Well this one," he gestures to the prosthetic, "is a fake one-"

"Why?"

"Hold on, I'm getting to that," he chuckles. "My real one got hurt pretty badly. So, I had to get a new one." He smiles at her. Iris mulls this over and seems to accept his simplified version of the story. She nods once and continues making a mess of the section of cookie dough Peeta has put in front of her. I exhale, temporarily relieved. It is already difficult to know how much to simplify things, how much to tell her. It is a guessing game with no correct answer. I just quietly watch Peeta work and hope that when she starts asking me questions, I'll have a good answer.

It doesn't take long for her to make me stumble as well. I'm in the woods with her and I'm lucky enough to bring down a doe. I start walking towards the animal when Iris speaks in my ear.

"Dead."

I nod, thinking the simplicity of the statement is almost funny. That is, until she continues.

"You kill it."

I pause for a long while, wondering what she's working through in that little brain of hers.

"Yes. I did kill it."

"Kill things is bad?" she asks haltingly. I can feel my stomach clench. My child has just figured out that I kill things for a living. And I have to explain it to her.

"It's not bad if you do it for food. To survive. You shouldn't kill things for no reason. Do you understand?"

She doesn't speak for a minute. Then she nods.

"For food. Deers and squirrels for food."

"That's right."

She nods and looks ahead for a minute. But I know she's going to continue and I know I'll probably be just as blindsided by the next questions as I was by the previous ones.

"Can't kill people."

I can feel my throat close up a little.

"No. You should never kill another person."

She pauses once more.

"You never killed people?" she asks, matter-of-fact, pointing to me. I stop moving. My two-year-old child has just asked me if I've ever killed anyone. She is confident that I haven't. My mouth is desert-dry. What do I tell her? I can't scare her. More importantly, I have to make sure she knows how grievous a crime it really is. How can I do that if I tell her the truth? How will she ever realize that it's not alright if she knows her mother has done it? Can I really lie to her, either? But I realize there is no way to explain the intricacies of the circumstances in which I killed people. Not as young as she is. She will not understand. Or maybe, she understands too well. The circumstances hardly seem like they matter in this moment. She will either be frightened, or she will think it's acceptable. Maybe both. I can't think of anything to say but, "No."

That night, after Iris is asleep, I cry into Peeta's shoulder and choke and tremble so hard I'm nearly vibrating. The only thing Peeta's panicked questions get from me is, "She asked me if I've ever killed anyone." He closes his eyes and clutches me tighter and I think I feel some stray tears from him on the top of my head. I barely sleep that night. I am awoken nearly every hour by unremitting nightmares. I dream of everyone I've ever killed. I see the blood everywhere. So much blood. And Iris is there, strapped to my back like she always is. She watches from over my shoulder. I wake up and bite the bedsheet and continue my choking sobs, thankful that Iris sleeps in her own room now. Peeta doesn't sleep either. He just stays awake, holding me together as he always has.

It is even worse the first time she really notices Peeta have one of his hallucinations. They never completely go away, so of course they've been happening intermittently since she was born. But since she was old enough to grasp the concept of was happening, she's either not noticed or not realized that this fairly common occurrence is not something that happens to most people. But there's a day that Peeta freezes in the middle of mixing up icing. The bowl and whisk clatter to the tabletop and Peeta's hands clutch the back of a chair. He doesn't say anything, just clenches his teeth and grips the back of the chair. I've got my arms looped around him like always when I notice Iris staring at him.

"What's wrong?" she pipes.

"Nothing's wrong," I tell her calmly. And really, it's true. Peeta's spells are few and far between and they're usually like this. Just a few minutes quiet strain and then they pass. "This just happens to daddy sometimes. And when it does, we just have to be quiet and calm and it'll go away pretty soon."

"Why?"

That's the question that is difficult. Explaining that nothing's wrong is one thing, but explaining where Peeta's hallucinations come from is different. Just another thing I have to explain part-way so as not to frighten her.

"It usually happens if he's stressed. Daddy went through a lot when he was younger, and sometimes when he remembers it, this happens. But most of the time it's over in just a minute or two."

"He's okay?" she asks, concerned.

"Yeah, little duck. He's okay."

Peeta's face relaxes after a moment. Iris comes over and wraps her arms around his leg, hugging him. Peeta smiles, calmer than he usually is after one of his spells, and picks her up. She burrows into his shoulder, content.

The most difficult question she asks me happens on that day of the year. I do not try to stay in bed anymore. Not after she was so worried about me that first year. It is a fight to go about my day as normally as I can. This day is always a bitter fight, whether I'm asleep, in bed, or walking around like I am now. I sit stock-still in the kitchen with Peeta while he makes breakfast, trying to pull myself together before he wakes Iris and brings her downstairs. He puts something in front of me, but I don't look at it or touch it. He sits right next to me, instead of across from me like he usually does. I lean towards him just a little, glad for the closeness. He doesn't say anything for a while, until I push my plate away and plant my elbows on the table, holding my head in my hands. I am not crying, but I am trying to fight it.

"Katniss, you don't have to do this. That was two years ago, she's almost three, she'd probably be fine now."

I shake my head, eyes still closed.

"No. I can't just leave her every time I feel bad."

Peeta sighs, conflicted. I think he knows I'm right, but his need to try and protect me is putting up a fight. I see him nod out of my periphery. He kisses me lightly on the back of my neck as my head hangs.

"Just, go easy on yourself, Katniss. Please?"

"I'm trying," I murmur.

Peeta hangs around for a bit before waking Iris. I can tell he's still hesitant, unsure if he should try and make me go back to bed or not. In the end, he stays silent. He knows that if I've said no, there'll be no arguing with me. He goes upstairs and returns a few minutes later with a bleary-eyed, sleepy Iris. Her hair is sticking up in the back like it always does. I wordlessly go fetch the small brush I use to tame her hair. Her hair is quite thick, even at almost three. I'm relieved that it only has a slight wave in it. If it were as curly as Peeta's, and as thick as mine, it would be utterly unmanageable. Iris eyes me warily as I approach her with the brush. She sits quietly as I work tangles out of it and smooth it down. I set the brush down and Iris frowns. She turns and grasps the end of my braid, whimpering a bit.

"Braid?"

I pause.

"You want me to braid it?"

She nods vigorously. It's the first time she's asked me to do anything with her hair other than brush it. I swallow hard. Even something as small as braiding my daughter's hair stops me in my tracks today. I remember putting braids in Prim's hair from the time my hands were steady enough to do it. But Iris doesn't know that everything she does today will remind me of my sister and it wouldn't be fair to her to keep stalling and breaking down every time she so much as looks at me. I steel myself and part her hair down the middle, hands automatically weaving two intricate braids in her dark hair. I go fetch a small hand mirror of my mother's so she can see it. To my surprise, she scowls when she sees it.

"No."

I see Peeta over by the oven trying not to laugh at how adamant she is.

"What's wrong with it? I braided it like you wanted," I ask, a bit defensive.

"_No_. Like you," she points at me.

"What?"

"She wants you to do it like yours," Peeta smiles.

"Oh." I did two braids, since both my sister and I wore it like that when we were young. But Iris obviously has other plans.

"Like you!" she repeats, obstinate.

"Okay, okay, I'll do it again!"

I shake out the two braids I've just completed and start again. This time, it's just the one braid, although it is in the same intricate style my mother taught us. The flood of memories is stemmed a little now. I don't see nearly as much of Prim. The dark hair and the one braid looks too eerily like me. When I've finished, I let her see the second one. She grins.

"Is this one to your satisfaction?" I joke at her. She nods.

"Thank you!" she chirps. A very muted smile creeps its way onto my face.

"You're welcome."

After Iris has finished her breakfast, she watches me, as if expecting something. I am sitting by the fire again, watching my untouched breakfast plate that Peeta has kept in front of me in hopes that I'll actually eat breakfast. When it gets cold, he eyes me sadly and quietly pulls it away from me, heading towards the sink with it. Iris keeps watching me. After a half an hour she finally speaks.

"Go outside today?"

I shake my head at her.

"No, not today, little one."

"Why?"

"I...we're going to stay inside and help daddy today."

Iris eyes me suspiciously. She takes my explanation without protest, but she seems to know that something is up. Peeta tries valiantly for the rest of the day to keep her entertained. Thankfully, he's got a little rush of orders, a bunch of small projects. He doesn't normally have terribly elaborate things to do just because the District is that small. But people do like to order small things here and there, and Peeta of course always bakes for us. Watching the mundane task of them working on Peeta's orders helps drag me through the day. I just sit, silent, and watch. Peeta letting her crack eggs to put in batter. Iris helping him with color schemes as she points to different food colorings. A little handful of Peeta's sugar flowers, Iris's giggles. They hold me together as I fight my way through the day, just sitting by the fire. I am glad when night falls and it's time to go to sleep. I have done nearly nothing all day, but just staying composed and functioning even slightly have exhausted me. I do not cry all day until I'm huddling in bed, pressed up to Peeta. He holds me to him, lips pressed to the top of my head, talking me through it. Telling me how well I did today. My tears are interrupted by our door squeaking open. I hear Peeta's sigh.

"Iris, what are you doing up? Come on, back to bed."

I feel the bed dip as Peeta moves to usher her back into her room. I watch as he reaches for her hand and she deftly ducks under him, and scampers over to the bed, clambering up right beside me. I sit up and hope my tears aren't obvious.

"Iris, go with daddy. It's bed time."

Iris just stares at me, blatantly ignoring both of us. Her little eyes widen after a moment.

"Sad," she reaches up and puts a chubby little hand on my cheek. She seems to mull something over for a minute before continuing. "Sad all day."

I sigh.

"Yeah, little duck. You're right."

As expected, she pipes,"why?"

I don't know what makes me tell her. Whether I'm tired of giving half-truths, or I think she can handle this, or I'm just too tired to resist. But I swallow hard and tell her the truth, the full truth, for the first time.

"I lost someone on this day. A long time ago."

"Lost?" I can tell she's not sure what I mean.

"Yeah. Someone I loved died today, many years ago. And I miss her."

Iris sobers considerably. She understands death somewhat now.

"Who?"

"My little sister."

Iris quiets even more. I'm not sure, but I think she understands the gravity of it. She nods slowly.

"Very sad," she confirms, agreeing with me. She sits there for a moment before silently climbing in my lap and latching onto my neck. She doesn't leave. I clutch her for dear life.

"Not sad anymore," she commands. I smile a little.

"I'll try."

I don't make Iris leave. I don't want her to. She's holding me together right now. Her and Peeta both. I don't worry tonight about nightmares, about her being worried about me. I can't change it. She's going to worry about us, and she's going to find out that her parents are troubled people. She already is. I can either worry myself to death about it, or accept it. After watching her take everything in stride, coping better than I ever have, I choose to accept it. I even let her help. I fall asleep with her curled up at my front, Peeta pressed up against my back and feel truly safe for the first time in almost eighteen years.

_**Hope everyone enjoyed! Thank you for all the awesome reviews last chapter. I loved reading them. :) And, as always, if you have any thoughts about this one, do pop by and leave a review! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	12. Chapter 12

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing! :)**_

"But I don't want to go."

I growl a little under my breath. Explaining to Iris why she has to do something she doesn't want to do is never something I look forward to. Not because I dislike making her do something she doesn't want to do, especially when Iris seems to have a penchant to dislike everything that's good for her. It's because Iris will argue in circles and it's a nightmare trying to get her to drop it. I'm sitting by the lake with her, ignoring the fact that she's currently smearing mud on her small hands in a pattern, hoping that the familiar setting will help. But really I just wish Peeta were helping me with this. He's better at explaining things.

"Well, you have to. It's not that bad, you'll be fine."

"But why?"

"I told you, daddy and I will get in trouble if we don't send you."

"Why?"

I grit my teeth.

"Iris. You have to go to school. End of story."

"Did _you_ have to?"

"Yes!" I snap. "Everyone you know had to, and so do you."

"Uncle Haymitch went to school?"

"As much as it doesn't seem like it, yes.

"But-"

"Iris! You. Have. To. Go."

"But why? I want to be out here."

I do wilt a little at that. Iris has been coming out here with me since she was born. She doesn't see the point of doing anything else. She doesn't want to be anywhere else. The worst part is, I understand it. I felt the same way from the time I was small. That is my fault, I suppose, for projecting that onto her. But it doesn't change the fact that I have to convince my stubborn child that she'll live through six hours of school five days out of seven.

"I know you do. But school is important," I insist, although I always felt like she does. I never liked school. I was usually bored, hungry, and lonely. I had few friends, and nearly none after my father died. I always understood what was going on, but never felt it had a point when I knew I'd just end up being forced into a trade and working to send things along to the Capitol anyway. Either that or continue with illegal hunting. But this is a different Panem. School has a point for Iris. She isn't doomed to be trapped in a trade in District 12 for the rest of her life. The lessons won't be steeped in Capitol propaganda. She can do what she likes. This could actually mean something for her.

"What will I learn that's important?"

"Oh, I don't know, how to read?" I sigh sarcastically, mostly to myself. Iris won't pick up on the sarcasm anyway.

"But daddy already taught me all my letters and I know some words. He can teach me."

"He probably could, but that's not the point. You still have to go."

Iris scowls.

"I want to stay out here with you."

"You'll still be able to come out here on the weekends. Maybe even after school."

Iris continues to pout, still painting swirls up her little arms in mud.

"Come on, we're going to check the traps, climb in," I point to the little pack on my back.

"I have to?"

"After you ran off last time? Yes."

Iris grumbles, but obeys, wrapping her mud-smeared arms around my neck. I heft her up on my back. The little pack I made will still carry her, although it probably won't work for too much longer. She's not terribly big for her age, but she is still four, so carrying her on my back is even getting difficult. It's just that she has the tendency to run off if she's not physically bound to me. I learned that the day I had to chase her through town, darting around corners and ducking under porches, with half of the people who know us watching, doubled over laughing. I had to weather comments about it for weeks. Things like, "Oh, she's yours, alright," and "She's even faster than you." Everyone was tickled to death because Katniss Everdeen couldn't catch her wild, slippery fox of a daughter. That's when Peeta and I made it a rule that Iris doesn't go anywhere alone without asking one of us. She normally obeys, but I don't want her running off in the woods if she decides to disobey. I could track her, but even so, I could also lose her quickly.

We have to make a lot of rules for Iris. She doesn't always mean to be so unruly (though sometimes it is deliberate) but she manages all the same. And she's a slippery little thing. She can find a loophole quicker than Haymitch can sniff out alcohol. Shortly after we made the asking-for-permission-before-running-off rule, we had to make it clear that if both Peeta and I are present, Iris has to ask _both _of us for permission. I said no to something and she turned around and managed to wheedle a 'yes' out of Peeta and that was it. After that, Peeta made a long, highly visible sign in our kitchen that reads "Iris's Rules" in bright blue paint at the top. He paints the words of each rule on the sign as we make them. The list gains a rule at least every week. Iris can't read them other than picking out a word here and there, but we leave them up because she'll catch on eventually. Peeta reads them to her every morning, calmly, and she nods after each one. I silently listen as I braid her hair.

"Okay, so do we remember the rules of the house?" Peeta smiles softly.

"I think so," she nods.

"Should we read them anyway?"

"Yes."

"Okay. One," Peeta starts. Most of the time his low, gentle voice is accompanied by her bright, treble one. "Always ask mama and daddy's permission before going anywhere. Two, if mama and daddy are both around, ask both for permission. Three, if one says yes and the other says no, the answer is no. Four, always ask before touching daddy's baking things. Five, mama's bow isn't a toy. Six, don't ever drink anything out of Uncle Haymitch's cup. Seven, always be kind to others, even if they're not kind to you. Eight, always be careful when the oven or the stove is on," Peeta put that one in for when she helps him with baking. He always trails off here and lets me recite the last two rules with her. I made these, terrified, the day I couldn't catch her in town. I am always afraid of something happening to her, especially when she runs off without me. She needs to be prepared. District 12 may be small, but it's carved out of an unstable, post-war climate and flanked by unruly wilderness.

"Nine. Don't go into the woods alone. The woods are good and help us survive, but they are also wild, and can be dangerous. Ten, if something happens and you're in danger, remember: keep calm, keep quiet, keep to the trees, and use your head."

I know that I sound militant and paranoid compared to Peeta. But I can't do anything else. Not when every fiber of my being is bent towards protecting her. So I'll gladly be a little militant before I let anything happen to her.

Iris continues grumbling lowly as I check my traps. She quiets minimally when we're in town, but picks up on the way home. By the time we step over the threshold, I'm quietly steaming.

"Peeta!" I call.

"Hm?"

"Please explain to your daughter why she has to go to school!"

I round the corner and Peeta is watching me, warily, eyebrows raised. He lifts Iris out of the little pack on my back. As soon as he's got a hold of her, she latches onto him, hugging him for dear life.

"Daddy, I don't want to go."

She knows Peeta is more sympathetic than me. I'm fairly certain she's trying to get him to tell her she doesn't have to go.

"Hey, now, school is fun."

"No it's not."

"How do you know?" he chuckles. "You haven't been. I'm serious, it is fun."

"You liked it?" she asks him, wary.

"Yeah," he smiles, and I can tell he's telling the truth. Peeta did like school. But then, Peeta is a more positive sort of person than I am. And he had friends when he was in school. Or maybe he just didn't think it was as pointless as I did. Either way, I hope Iris likes school like Peeta always did. I'm not sure I want to weather the arguments over it for the next fourteen years or so if she hates it.

"Okay." She's obviously still skeptical, but if anyone can convince her, it's Peeta.

In the months before Iris is due to start school, Peeta starts prepping her for it, just to make sure she's as comfortable with it as possible. He walks her by the school twice a week or so to show it to her, and to make sure she knows the way. Children in District 12 walk to school. It makes me nervous, but she'll be joined by other children along the way. The paths from the Victor's Village, and what used to be the Seam, converge and go straight through the center of town, to the other side where the school is. She won't walk too far before she's joined by a little trickle of dark-headed children coming in from the part of 12 I used to live in. Peeta briefs her on what sort of classes she'll be in, although he does keep it a bit vague. We have no idea how much school has changed since the Capitol fell. We know it will be different. But we're comforted by the fact that it has to have changed for the better, so our vague information is alright. He also keeps teaching her all he can before she gets there. Basic math, a bit more on reading. It's to the point that I'm not sure what poor Iris's teacher will be able to with her for the first few months of school. Peeta's taught her half the stuff she'll be there to learn.

I also like to watch the little stream of school supplies start appearing in the house. They gather in a little bag on a coat rack by the door. It's the same bag Peeta used when he was small. I vaguely remember it, in a hazy memory walking alone to school. I remember seeing Peeta's blonde head far in the front of the little procession of children, walking with the other fair-headed merchant children, wearing a bright little yellow bag on his back. Most of the other children from town had bags like it, but none of them were a bright color. Just Peeta's. The children from the Seam dragged about at the rear, most just carrying their things in waif-like little arms, sometimes strapping a book or two together with a belt. The yellow bag is a bit worn now, but still just as bright. Peeta took good care of it. First, a little pad of paper, the kind the the wide lines meant for small, clumsy hands. I remember my father drawing lines just like it himself on the blank, rough sheets of paper that he could find for me and Prim. Next, a pad of pristine, white paper with no lines at all. Then, a little, pink, rubber eraser.

I start contributing things then. Peeta smiles the day he finds me whittling down a pile of hardwood sticks by the fire. I cover them with the thin foil that Peeta keeps around the house and place them in the middle of the crackling flames. I remember the day he came in carrying a little handful of expensive charcoal pencils years ago and I told him not to buy them anymore.

"Why not?"

"Because I know how to make them."

Peeta deflated, laughed a little, and never bought them again. I've been making his pencils ever since, and now I'm making Iris's too. I fish the sticks out of the fire once they stop smoking and let them cool before gluing sheafs of thick paper around them so her little hands don't get covered in charcoal. I sharpen all of them with a knife. I put five of them in her bag, and wordlessly place the remaining five in the pencil case in Peeta's studio. A few days after that, Peeta comes to me with the bag, opens it, and peers inside.

"Do you think there's anything else she needs?" He tilts the open bag towards me. I pause for a minute before nodding.

"Chalk." I remember bringing thin, brittle sticks of chalk to school for the worn, sometimes cracked slates we wrote on. I always marveled at a few of the children who had chalk in a range of colors and could write math problems and practice their letters in different colors, their slates a dusty rainbow. I distinctly remember that Delly Cartwright always had pink chalk with her.

"I forgot about that," Peeta nods. We stopped using the little slates when we were twelve or so, so I can understand his forgetting. "I'll get some tomorrow-"

I shake my head at him.

"Just save me some eggshells from that cake you're working on later."

"You know how to make chalk, too?"

I nod.

"And crayons. We had to. Well, the crayons not so much. But Prim loved them, so I figured out how."

Peeta grins, disbelieving.

"Can you do everything?"

"Of course I can." A wry smile creeps up, ruining my straight face. It grows wider when Peeta sobers, and worriedly asks, "Do you think she needs crayons, too?"

I laugh. "No."

Peeta fidgets, unconvinced.

"Would it make you feel better if she had them?"

"Well, I already bought the plain paper, because what if they have to-"

"I'll make the crayons, too."

Peeta just smiles, grateful. That night, while Peeta is baking, I start on Iris's chalk. She is absorbed in helping Peeta, but as soon as Peeta hands off a little pile of eggshells to me, she's bouncing back and forth between us at different ends of the kitchen.

"What are you making?" she asks me, wide-eyed and curious as I grind the shells into a powder.

"Chalk. It's for you when you go to school," I explain to her.

"It's made out of eggs?" she asks, incredulous, grinning.

"The shells, yes. And flour, and a little bit of water."

Once she gets bored of watching me grind eggshells, she darts back over to Peeta's side of the kitchen, standing on her toes, with her tiny chin resting on the tabletop. Peeta patiently keeps working with her head under his elbow.

"Who are the cookies for?" she chirps, pointing to the tray of them that Peeta is icing carefully.

"Well, no one in particular. I always have a little bit of everything made in case someone wants something and didn't put in an order. Does that make sense?"

She nods her dark little head.

"Can I have one?"

"You already had a piece of cake, so let's hold off on the cookie for now, okay?"

"Okay," she relents, mildly disappointed. While they're occupied, I go fish for flour in one of the many cabinets that Peeta stores his baking supplies in. I stumble across a handful of the pigments that he uses to tint icing and those sugar flowers he makes. I narrow my eyes, thinking, and gather a few of them along with a little cup of flour.

"Mama, what are you doing with Daddy's baking things?" Iris asks innocently and curiously, right by my ear. I barely manage not to jump at hearing her voice that close, unexpected.

"Rat me out, why don't you?" I mutter as Peeta looks over and sees me trying to sneak his pigments out of the cabinet.

"Katniss?" he frowns lightly, confused as to what I could possibly want with four or so tiny jars of colored, edible powder.

"I want to try something. Can I use these? Not much, just a little bit."

"Of course, you can use anything you want. Just, you do know those are for baking right?" Peeta asks, obviously wondering if I'm making a strange, unexplained foray into the culinary arts tonight.

"I know. And don't look at me like that, I'm not going to go off and make some huge failure of a cake that you'd have to clean up or anything."

Peeta shrugs, says, "I trust you," and lets me slink off to the other side of the room with his precious pigments. It's moments like these that I idly think that he must love me. Anyone else who tampered with his baking supplies would've died.

I quietly start mixing the flour with the eggshells. But I add the water with each stick, and drop a little bit of pigment in on each stick. Iris is still across the room, so she doesn't notice what I'm doing. I'm glad. She gets impossibly excited over colorful things, so I'm hoping she'll fish these out of her bag at school and see the different colors and maybe she'll cheer up a little about being forced to go to school. I wrap each stick in paper after molding the sticky, dusty mix into shape. When I'm done, there's a little row of six slender sticks of chalk, ready to dry by the window for about three days. There's a pale red-pink, a cheerful yellow the color of her room, a bright green that reminds me of our lake, a sky blue, a creamy orange, and a pearl-white one. I put the little bundle of chalk by the window and return Peeta's baking pigments to their rightful place. He inspects the chalk after a moment, looking at the ends that aren't covered in paper. He gasps quietly and grins and I shake my head. I want to keep the colors a surprise. He nods once, humoring me.

The next day in the woods, I park Iris a good two hundred feet back from a buzzing tree that I'm inspecting thoroughly.

"Tell me again what you're supposed to do?"

"Not move. And stay still. And be quiet."

"Good. I'll be right back, and I'll be right over there, you'll be able to see me."

"Okay. What are you doing?"

"Trying to see if there's a beehive in the tree."

Iris grins.

"Honeycomb!"

"That's right. That's what we're trying to get. But you need to stay far away because I don't want you to get stung, understand?"

"But what about you?"

"I've got gloves, I'll be alright. Bees aren't that bad if you know how to work with them. Be right back," I pet her tiny, dark braid and walk off towards the buzzing tree, along a shallow creek running through here. I look around for stray insects, checking to make sure these are honey bees and not carpenter bees or wasps or yellow jackets. Or worse, tracker jackers. But I see a squat-looking, fuzzy, brownish bee and know I've found the right thing. I break a good-sized, green, leafy branch off a young, swaying tree and put it at the base of the bee tree. I build a little nest of dry pine needles on top of it, fish my flint and steel out of my pocket, get a good spark out of it. The pine straw, and then the green branch, catch on fire. The green one sends up plumes of thick smoke, right up to the entrance of the beehive. The buzzing quiets a little. Once I'm sure the bees are calm enough, I carve a wider opening into the tree with my knife, make sure that my hands and arms are covered by both my gloves and my hunting jacket, and I reach in. I cut a chunk of honeycomb out of the hive, larger than my hand, and pop it in the glass jar I brought along. I shake off the few bees that were still conscious enough to gather on my hands, stamp out the little fire, and sprint the hundred feet to Iris, who's still standing, small and quiet, by the same tree I left her by. I swing her up under my arm and jog a little farther before I'm sure that any stray, angry bees aren't following.

"Why did we run?"

"Because the bees are probably not too happy that I just took a chunk out of their house. You have to get out of there quick before they realize what happened."

"Can bees kill you?"

"Not four or five, no. But if the whole hive comes after you, it's not good news."

"What about yellow jackets?"

"Most of those bugs aren't that bad if it's just one. Just be careful if there's a lot of them, or if there's any sort of hive close. Except tracker jackers. Those are different."

"Are they worse?"

I feel the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end.

"Yes. Even one is very, very dangerous. If you see one, you get as far away from it as you can. And if you see a hive, run. Never mess with tracker jackers."

"What do they do?"

"They're very poisonous-"

"They can kill you? Even one?"

"Yes. And if they don't, the sting will hurt so bad you can't think. And it'll make you...see things."

"See things?"

"Things that aren't there."

"Wow!" Iris is obviously wary, but fascinated. "That's scary! But they're so little!"

"That's part of the problem. They're small enough that you don't always see them until you're right up on them. They're a bit bigger than a wasp, and shiny gold, so if you ever see that, get away from them. Fast."

"Have you ever seen one?"

"Yes."

"Did you get stung?"

I sigh.

"Yes. I did. And the only reason I was okay was because someone knew that if you chew these up," I gesture to one of the wide leaves that Rue told me about, "and put it on the sting, it draws the poison out. But if you stay away from them, you shouldn't get stung." Iris nods against me.

"Good, 'cause I don't wanna get stung."

"I don't want you to either, little duck."

"Can I have honey when we get home?"

I chuckle a little at how quickly Iris gets bored with one topic and switches to another.

"Sure."

When I get home, I pop all the beeswax plugs off the honeycomb, drain the honey, and put a little smear of it on a piece of bread for Iris. She devours it happily, legs swinging as she sits in one of our kitchen chairs, dwarfed by its size. Peeta seems just as elated about the honey as she, and I watch him sneak a spoonful of it and pop it in his mouth without putting it on anything.

"I saw that."

He shrinks sheepishly and I just smile. I sit there grating a bar of soap with a knife. Peeta frowns.

"What are you-"

"Just wait and see," I roll my eyes. Peeta watches right over my shoulder as I put the wax and soap in a pan and melt it over the stove. I dive into the cabinets after, searching for the cupcake tin Peeta uses for the small, bite-sized ones he makes, and the same pigments from yesterday. Peeta grins, excited, as I fill each one about a fourth of the way up and mix a different colored pigment in each, stirring it. I put the tin in the oven for a few minutes, drag it back out, and let it cool. A few hours later, I let Peeta pop six little thick, disc-shaped crayons out of the tin. He seems more excited than I expect Iris will be.

"You like them that much?" I chuckle a little, watching Iris try not to doze off where she's sitting in front of the fire.

He shrugs.

"I liked them when I was little. And we could hardly ever buy them. My dad would buy them once a year, though, for my birthday. And I'd wear them down to nothing in two weeks," he grins. "Of course, he started buying paints when I was about thirteen. But I wish I had known how to do this."

"If I had known, I would've made you crayons," I shake my head a little.

"I didn't really think you knew who I was until," Peeta looks over to make sure that Iris has fully descended into unconsciousness before continuing, "our first Games."

"I knew exactly who you were by the time we were eleven. And I would've given you almost anything you wanted to repay you for that. To not be indebted." I look to make sure Peeta knows I'm talking about those two charred loaves of bread. He smiles sadly.

"You weren't indebted. I didn't want repayment. I did it because I wanted to."

"I know." And I smile too.

Peeta is fussing over Iris the minute she's awake on her first day of school. She doesn't seem to notice. I'm not sure whether it's because she's too sleepy or she's just used to it. Iris is never fully aware in the mornings and Peeta coddles her so much she doesn't seem to think anything is amiss. I go and scrub her down while Peeta apprehensively re-packs her bag for the fifth time and checks the weather. Iris scowls through her bath. She's happiest with a good three layers of dirt on her and would cheerfully go to school looking like a human dirt clod. I sympathize. I was also a grubby sort of child. I didn't see the point of baths when I knew I was bound to get more dirt on me within minutes of being outside. That and I hated the scratchy scrub brush my mother used to rake over me. Once she's pink from my scrubbing and dry, I dress her in the same red, plaid dress I wore on my first day of school. She scowls over this, too.

"I don't like it."

"Just wear it for today and you don't have to wear it again. But you have to look nice for your first day."

"I want to wear pants."

"You can tomorrow."

"But you never wear dresses! Why do I have to?"

"Because I'm your mother and I said so. Besides, I wore this on my first day. And guess what?"

"What?" she asks warily.

"I never wore it again either."

Iris smiles just a little.

The fussing resumes when Iris gets downstairs. Peeta tries not to tear up when he sees that she's in my little dress. It's one of the few clothing items from my childhood that my mother kept out of sentimentality. He ties a huge towel around her neck to make sure her breakfast doesn't end up on her dress. He fidgets. He doesn't seem to want to sit still. I snort and braid her hair while he stands there, unsure of what to do with himself. Iris notices and giggles wildly.

"Daddy! Sit down and eat your breakfast!" she titters, parroting a phrase that I've used with her more times than I can count.

He smiles guiltily and sits down as I laugh. She finishes her breakfast just as I tie off the long, single braid in her dark hair. I run a wet rag over her mouth and sticky hands and she sputters, indignant. And then it's time for her to go. Peeta and I stand with her on the front step. Peeta places her yellow bag on her shoulders, checks to make sure her lunch is in there, and smoothes her dress one more time. I tuck a stray, wavy hair into her braid.

"You remember how to get there, right?" Peeta asks gently, kneeling down by her.

"Yes. Through town to the other side."

"That's right. Now give me a hug."

She throws her little arms around his shoulders and he kisses her forehead.

"Have a good day, sweetheart."

She turns her little blue eyes on me. I sit down on the step by her.

"Remember, go straight there and come straight back. No detours," I tell her, tickling her side a little, knowing she'd love to scamper off somewhere without us there.

"I know," she giggles before putting her little arms around my neck and burying her face there.

"You'll be alright, little duck," I assure her. She nods into my shoulder. I kiss her dark little head and she pulls back and steps off into the green. She waves bye to us and starts off in the direction of town.

Peeta is already beside himself watching her scamper off. When she starts making her way down the hill from the Victor's Village, out of sight, I turn around, put my foot on the railing of our porch, hook my hands over the gutter, and drag myself up on the roof.

"Katniss? What are you doing?" Peeta asks, alarmed.

"Calm down, I'm just watching her. You can see halfway into town from up here."

"Oh. Okay. Can you see her?"

"Yep. It's the yellow bag. You could see that thing for miles," I laugh.

"Is she going the right way?"

"So far. I could try to help you up here if you want."

"No, no," Peeta shakes his head vigorously. "It's fine. I don't really like heights."

"Never would've guessed," I mutter, flat.

I watch the little yellow bag trot along to the road that leads through town. I see Iris's dark little head disappear into a small sea of swarthy-looking children coming from the other side of 12, dotted with the occasional lighter head. But I keep track of the yellow bag.

"I hope she makes friends alright," Peeta chews his nail apprehensively.

I watch an older girl, about twelve, who's presumably going to the other school, the one further out, for the older children. I watch her look down, auburn hair pinned back behind her head, and smile at my bouncy four-year-old. She says something to her and Iris enthusiastically nods. The girl gestures down to her hands, where she's dragging along two dark-headed children I assume are her siblings. A little boy who's about nine, who looks mortified that his sister is holding his hand, and a tiny girl who is only about a year older than Iris. Iris waves, greeting them excitedly. I laugh when I realize who it is. It's Hazel. I can't believe she recognized Iris. She's never even seen her before today. I remind myself to thank her for taking my unruly little child under her wing on her first day.

"Don't worry, she's fine."

"Is she? What's going on?"

"Hazel found her."

"What, really? Oh good," Peeta sighs, relieved. "I was scared she'd get lost."

I shake my head.

"More like run off. Hopefully Hazel will keep her from doing that. She's talking with them. A lot. Poor Hazel, Iris is never going to leave her alone."

Peeta laughs. Hazel kindly keeps talking to her. Her sister seems more than happy to talk to another little girl close to her age. I watch the four of them until they round the corner on the other side of town. I climb down and sit next to Peeta on the front step. He's still a bit teary, so I rest my head on his shoulder, aware that sometimes, Peeta needs me close just like I need him. But I start feeling similar after a moment or two. When Peeta's tears have slowed I ask, hesitatingly, "What do we do now?"

Peeta stares blankly out into the grass.

"I don't know. What did we do before?"

"I'm not sure. I mean, I know we did the same things we do now, just-" I trail off, unsure.

"Without her," Peeta finishes. I nod. Peeta and I have suddenly found ourselves alone and without our daughter for the first time in four years. We have no idea how to proceed. I sit there for a good few minutes longer before I smile. Peeta looks at me strangely. I can tell he doesn't feel much like smiling.

"Look, I know you already miss her. But think about it. Peeta, we can eat lunch without...wrangling with her. We can actually have some semblance of a conversation without 'Daddy, what are you doing? Can I help?'"

Peeta laughs and pauses, smiling, looking slightly wildly out into the grass.

"That is a really nice prospect. That's-," he sighs, still laughing a little. "Katniss, we can be adults for six hours!" he exclaims loudly, as if he's just realized this.

"That's debatable," we hear Haymitch's hoarse, hungover voice call from the side of his house, where he's out with the geese. I make a rude gesture at him and ignore him. He returns the favor.

"So are you going outside today?" Peeta asks, thinking I'll be glad to run around and hunt without a heavy four-year-old on my back. While it would indeed be nice, I shake my head and he raises his eyebrows.

"No, I'm staying right here with you today, where I can talk to you uninterrupted. I'll go tomorrow."

Peeta smiles widely.

"I'm glad. I've missed you."

I can't help the wide grin that creeps onto my face.

I follow Peeta about the house today much like I used to when I was carrying Iris. Although, he does only the minimum of what he has to do insofar as baking. Mostly, he just lets me lean on him while he sketches, both of us happily sitting right in the middle of the slightly tall, green grass in the Victors' Village. I would take him out to the lake, but I don't want to stray too far and risk not being home when Iris is done with school. I doze off more than once, happy for the companionship and the warmth and the quiet. Once I wake up enough to hear Haymitch growl, "You know, most people have the common decency to do that kind of thing in the privacy of their own homes. But it's fine, deposit yourselves in the middle of everything." Peeta just rolls his eyes and continues sketching with my head on his shoulder. I sit up long enough to lob a rock towards him, listen to it bounce off of his shoulder with a satisfying 'thunk', and hear his subsequent cursing. Then I put my head right back where it was and fall straight to sleep, bright sun reflecting orange behind my closed eyes. When I wake up again, it's about two by the way the sun looks. Peeta has eventually fallen asleep too, hand still clutching his pencil. I shake him gently. Iris will be coming home soon. He sits up, rubs his eyes, and smiles. At three, when I know Iris gets out of school, I climb right back up on the roof of our house. Haymitch peeks out of his window, rolls his eyes at seeing me standing, one foot in front of the other, on the thin corner where the roof peaks, and slinks back into the recesses of his house. I watch the stream of children start making their way back up the same road through town, watch the children who live in town break off and go left or right towards home. I watch the rest of them head straight towards the Victor's Village. I smile when I spot the little yellow bag, bouncing a few paces ahead of Hazel's bright hair, babbling excitedly with Hazel's little sister. The two seem to have hit it off.

"Do you see her?" Peeta asks from the porch.

"Mmhm. And you shouldn't worry about her anymore on the social front. It looks like she's already got a partner in crime," I mutter as I watch the two run over and jump, flat-footed, into a mud puddle. I wince. "Emphasis on the crime."

"What?"

"Oh, you'll know what I mean when you see her dress."

Hazel drags her sister out of the puddle, fussing at her. Iris slinks out too, and I can nearly see the gears turning in her brain. She's aware that if mild-mannered Hazel is upset about the state of her sister's clothes, her mama and daddy are likely to be exponentially worse. She looks ahead warily and starts when she finally gets close enough to spot me on the roof. She waves tentatively and I wave back once. Her new friend sees me too and her little gray eyes widen, obviously excited that I'm all the way up on the roof. I drop down onto the railing, and then beside Peeta on the front step as Iris scampers across to our house. The bottom hem of her dress, as well as her white socks and her shoes, are covered in mud. Peeta sighs.

"Iris, what did you do to your dress?"

She looks at the ground, silent.

"What did you do?" he asks again.

"Jumped in a puddle," she murmurs.

"Are we going to do that again?"

"No." She's still looking at the ground.

"Why not?"

"Because it got on my dress and that's bad."

"That's right. But I also want to ask," Iris ducks her head further thinking Peeta is going to reprimand her more, "how your first day of school was," he finishes mildly. She smiles.

"I liked it!" she exclaims, surprised, jumping in the air a little. "Even though I already knew a lot of stuff because you taught it to me."

Peeta laughs. "Well, did you still learn new things?"

"Yes! But I don't think we did a lot today besides learn rules for our class and stuff. But I liked seeing the other kids."

"Good, did you make any new friends?"

"Yes! Mama, did you see the girl I was walking with?" she turns excitedly to me.

"I did. You two seemed like you were having fun."

"Uh huh! Her name is Holly and her sister is Hazel and she was nice to me this morning. And she knew who you were," she points to me, frowning. "She asked me if I was your daughter." Iris is obviously a little confused as to how a girl she's never seen before knows who she is.

"Hazel was in the doctor's office once while I was there. I was pregnant with you, so she knew who you were before you were born," I smile a little, glossing over why Hazel knows me so well.

"Oh. Okay!" Iris moves on, unperturbed.

"Come on, let's go inside and get you out of those muddy clothes," Peeta smiles.

"And we learned about all the Districts and what they do! And the teacher asked if any of us had left the District before and a few kids had! One girl had been to 11, and another boy went all the way to 7!"

"Well, actually, you can tell your teacher that you've been out of the District, too. We took you to District 4 when you were a baby, so your grandmother could see you. But you were too little to remember."

"Really? Can we go back sometime? My teacher said there's a lot of beaches there and that they're really pretty!"

Peeta chuckles, "Maybe."

"Have you seen any of the other Districts?"

"Your mama and I have seen all of them, actually."

"All of them? Wow! Can I tell my teacher that?"

"If you want." Peeta doesn't mention to Iris that her teacher surely knows already. I smile sadly and follow Peeta and a rapidly babbling Iris inside, wondering how many months of school I have before the questions get more troubling.

Our days move like this. Peeta and I see Iris off to school in the morning. We split up and attend to our own businesses in the early part of the day. I will admit, it is a lot easier hunting without Iris's extra weight. But I also admit that more often than not, I miss the companionship. She's become my little hunting partner, and sometimes the woods are lonely without her. People around town miss seeing her, too, and make me promise to bring her with me on the weekends. By midday, I'm usually back, trying to glean whatever time I can get with Peeta. We don't do much of anything together. We just enjoy each others' uninterrupted company, which is something we haven't gotten a lot of in the past four years with a high-maintenance child on our hands. Then, I climb on the roof to watch for Iris. She gets home and tells us every minute detail about her day. Peeta listens and responds patiently. I chime in every now and then. Most of what she's learning is basic math and reading. But sometimes she pipes up with some basic information about Panem as a whole. I know none of it is threatening right now, but as she gets older and the class moves on, I'm going to have to answer more questions. The day she comes home and tells us she learned who the President of the Republic of Panem is, Peeta and I nearly choke when she starts talking about "President Paylor." We look at each other and quietly go about our business. We silently agree to tell her when she's older that we know her president. Imparting even that one thing now would mean a volley of questions. She'd find out that her mother has fought on a battlefield with "President Paylor." That the reason there was a battle at all was her parents' doing. I wonder uncomfortably when her teacher is going to mention us. I clench my eyes shut and keep listening to her excited, innocent chatter and wonder if it'll be years or months before it won't be so innocent anymore. Surely her teacher won't think it appropriate to tell four-year-olds about the Games. I placate with myself with that thought.

Thankfully, as the months go on, Iris doesn't come home talking about much more than the bare minimum of information about where she lives. Even if she were being taught more, Iris seems much more interested in her art class and the two little girls she's friends with. Iris loves art class. Peeta can't stop grinning when she comes home and says she told her teacher she's good at art because her daddy is the best artist in the world. One look in her little blue eyes makes it clear that she truly believes it. Peeta just kisses her and says, "Thank you, sweetheart." And she does posses a true talent for it. The art may still be clumsy, but I have no doubt that she'll display Peeta's immense talent as she ages. Iris talks about that and her two friends mostly. Of course there's Hazel's sister, Holly, who I'm surprised to learn is actually in Iris's class. I thought she was a year ahead. Iris shakes her head and tells me that she's the oldest in the class, but still in with her grade. She's also made friends with a little girl from the merchant section, a very sweet-looking, fair-haired girl that Iris tells me is named Rosemary. From the looks of it, Iris and Holly overwhelm Rosemary a little, but they're kind to her, and I watch the shy, smiling little girl walk with them to and from school every day. There aren't all that many more children in her class, from what I hear from Iris. I think there's only fifteen in total for her whole age group. There used to be at least three classes per age group, but District 12 is so much smaller now. Iris doesn't seem to notice. She bounces along with her two friends and is quite content. It is a relief that she adjusts better to school than I ever did.

I watch her from the roof every morning and every afternoon. To and from school. I know that she knows the way to school and the way back home, but I try once not to look for her after school and am so worked up by the time she gets home I've chewed my nails to the point of bleeding. It is a compulsion. I have to know that she's there. I have to know that she's safe. And so I watch everyday. Anything else is unthinkable. Day in and day out I watch her, unequivocally the ringleader of her little group of friends, scamper to school, dragging a rambunctious Holly and a timid Rosemary along with her. I can always find them by looking for Iris's yellow bag and Hazel's bright hair. I sit back and smile, watching the four of them, safe and happy.

Soon, it's late autumn, already almost November. Iris has been in school for two months and seems to love every second of it. I'm smiling, enjoying the cool air up on the roof. I see Hazel's bright head dart up the road through town. I look around her, but the little girls couldn't possibly keep up with her the way she's running. The little pack of children are still too far away for me to distinguish and Hazel quickly overtakes the whole group, running in front of them. I laugh and shrug. Probably racing her little brother or something. It's not until she runs straight into the green in the Victors' Village that my heart starts beating faster. It drops into my stomach when she makes a beeline for our house. I lean over the lip of the roof and Peeta looks up at me, alarmed. I scramble back up to the point in the roof, scanning the group of children that are now close enough for me to make out. I look for the bright yellow bag, the single dark braid, the brown and blonde heads right next to it. And I don't see it. I don't see any of it. Iris isn't there.

Hazel skids to a stop right in front of Peeta and doubles over, coughing from her exertion, red-faced and sweating.

"Mr. Mellark-" she wheezes.

"Hazel? What's going on?" Peeta asks gently. He's obviously trying to contain the uneasiness in his voice, trying to calm Hazel down enough that she can tell him why she's gasping for air having sprinted through half of District 12. I keep looking at the children who get closer and closer, checking to make sure I haven't missed something. But I still don't see the little yellow bag. "It's okay, calm down. What is it?"

She regains her breath enough to speak and straightens. Her face is grey and panicked.

"I wasn't at school today, I just walked Holly to school in the morning and had to go back. Our little brother is sick. And I went there at the end of the day to walk her back home. I got there right when they had just gotten out. And I couldn't find her. I went inside and asked her teacher and she says she saw her leave with Iris and the other little girl, the blond one, Rosemary. We looked in every room and closet and even in the bushes outside. We can't find her. I looked for Iris and Rosemary. I thought they might've seen her. But then I didn't see them either. I can't find any of them. Their teacher says she saw _all_ of them leave, which doesn't make any sense! They're not there! I was on my way back home to tell dad, but I thought you," Hazel leans up and looks me dead in the eye, "would know what to do. If anyone can find them-" she trails off, shaking and sputtering.

My thought process screeches to a halt. Seconds feel like hours. I try to tell myself that they've probably just run off to play somewhere they're not supposed to. But my mind can't help but flood with nightmarish ideas and visions, everything I've ever been afraid of. Capitol. Muttations. The Games. Children killed. Two blonde pigtails and an explosion. No. No, no, no, _no._

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am from District 12. I was in the Hunger Games twice. I was the Mockingjay in the war against the Capitol. The Capitol is gone. My sister is also gone. She was killed by a bomb. Gale may have been the one who killed her. My mother doesn't live here anymore. District 12 was destroyed. District 12 is being built back up. I live with Peeta Mellark. We have a little girl named Iris. She has my dark hair and Peeta's blue eyes. Iris is missing. I don't know what I will do if I don't find her. All I know is what I will do to anyone or anything that hurts her.

_**Hope you all enjoyed! Even though you all probably hate me for the cliffhanger, haha. Thank you so much for all the reviews last chapter! They were all so sweet and so nice to read! If you had any thoughts about this chapter, do pop by and leave a review! Thanks for reading! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing!**_

"Katniss?"

It is Peeta's voice that snaps me out of my monologue. As soon as it does, I'm in motion. I scramble down off the roof and sprint across to Haymitch's house. I pound at the door wildly. He opens it and growls.

"What the hell is the emergency?"

"Iris is missing."

Haymitch sobers.

"I need you to stay at our house while Peeta and I go to look for her just in case she comes home while we're out," I stammer so quickly it's almost unintelligible. Haymitch, for once, has nothing to say. He just follows me wordlessly back to my house and sits right on the porch beside Peeta.

"Come on, we're going to the school," I drag Peeta up.

"Hazel, go home and tell your dad what happened. You can tell him that Peeta and I are going by the school to look. Have him check Holly's favorite hiding places and if she's not there, an extra pair of eyes around town wouldn't hurt."

Hazel nods and resumes her sprint, heading off in the other direction.

"Can you run?" I ask Peeta. He smiles bitterly.

"I did in the Quarter Quell, didn't I? This thing's actually probably sturdier than my real one," he gestures to his leg. I nod once and then there's nothing else but my feet pounding against the ground and I'm moving as fast I can towards the other side of town. People watch us dart past, and eye us warily. It's been a long time since anyone saw Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark run like this. And they know it can't mean anything good.

I don't stop when I'm outside the school. I rush straight in to the building and right into the run down little room that is something of a central office. The poor woman behind the desk looks as if she'll have a heart attack when she sees me and Peeta burst in. She jumps again when the door slams against the wall from the force of my pushing it.

"Where's the Pre-K teacher?" I demand, not attempting to cushion my tone. She just wordlessly points, surely wanting to be rid of us as soon as possible. Peeta and I turn around and stride off in the direction she points. I push the door open with about as much delicacy this time around. Peeta makes sure to speak before I do, though, obviously wanting to speak calmly enough not to scare off the timid-looking, lanky teacher who can't be out of his late twenties. He eyes me, clearly terrified. Peeta speaks softly, but with an urgency that tells the young teacher that we're not here to mess around.

"Hi. Listen, we're really concerned. There are three little girls who left your class today who are missing-"

"Three?" his eyes widen, shocked. "Now it's three?"

Peeta nods.

"I don't know what happened. I watch all of my students leave every day. The little Hawthorne girl walked right out that front door," he gestures down the hall a bit, "with her two friends. Your daughter and the little Miller girl. They all walked right out like they always do." His eyes are wide and his lanky frame trembles a bit.

"Is there anywhere around here or outside they could be hiding?"

"We checked all the rooms already, all the closets and everything. We even looked in all the trees and bushes outside. I didn't see anyone. We've already got people doing a second look-through in here. I could help you check outside again," he offers, shaken up by the fact that three of his students have inexplicably disappeared.

"We'll check outside first," I snap. The shaken teacher nods. I examine the ground as soon as we're outside, but there's not much I can discern. Too many little feet to be able to track anything. I stray around the side of the building, examining every bush, every tree. I'm about to turn around and check the inside of the school when I see it. A little trail of disturbed grass, a broken series of branches between two shrubs.

"Peeta! Tell the teacher to keep someone at the school in case they come back!" I call. Peeta rushes to do so and is back out of the building and beside me in seconds.

"What did you find?"

"A trail. A small one, but it's there. I think they went the back way behind town."

"But where are they going?"

I shake my head grimly.

"I don't know."

I start following the little path of disturbed grass and shrubbery back behind town, on the outskirts. It's heading towards the Seam, running parallel to the road I watch her walk every day. I'm hoping with everything I have that they took a roundabout path to where Holly lives. I'm hoping that I'll be able to reprimand Iris for scaring me to death and for there to have been no problem whatsoever. My stomach keeps sinking as the trail veers right. Towards the fence. I look back at Peeta for just a moment. His face is just as fearful as mine surely is, blonde eyebrows knitted, blue eyes guarded. I bite the inside of my cheek and stop for a minute, eyes closed, when the trail passes right through where my little gate is.

"It goes into the woods?" Peeta chokes. I nod once.

"Do you...do you think someone took them out there?"

"No," I shake my head. "Think about it. The trail goes right through the gate we always go through. Anyone trying to get away quickly wouldn't have walked halfway through 12. They would've gone under the fence closer to the school. I think Iris is going to be in a lot of trouble when I manage to find her. I think she took her friends out here."

Peeta sighs and clenches his fist in his hair.

"Do you think they're okay?"

"I don't know. The bigger problem though, is that the closer it gets to sunset, the harder it'll be to find them." I scowl and look at the already graying sky. Since it's almost November, the sun is setting quicker and quicker every day. I may have an hour and a half at the most to find them. And I have no idea how far they've strayed. I have to move fast.

"Peeta, stay here by the gate. If I'm not back by nightfall, send help."

"Okay. Be careful," he urges. I nod once and then I'm moving at a steady clip, low to the ground, watching the little trail. I make sure to veer off course just long enough to slip my bow and quiver out of the tree I've always kept it in, just in case. I'm hoping the little trail leads down towards the lake. The landscape is more open there and it'll make it easier to find the three tiny girls. But nothing seems to be going right today. The trail leads in an ambling pattern straight into dense forest. I follow the trail of disturbed leaves and broken brush. I watch the sky apprehensively. How they've managed to get so far into the woods, I don't know. By the looks of the highly disturbed path they've made, they were moving fast. Probably running, playing some sort of game. I move as fast as I can, trying to catch up, but I still have to focus on the little trail. Trails like these are never clearly marked paths. It takes a keen eye and concentration to follow them. A broken plant here, shifted leaves there. I have no hope of moving as fast as they while still following their trail. And so I keep squinting at the ground, eyes narrowing as light gets scarcer, hoping they're not still moving. The feeling of desperation climbing up my throat, stealing my breath, squeezing my heart gets stronger. It's been at least an hour. No sign of any of them other than the trail I keep doggedly following as the sun sinks lower, behind the trees. It's not completely dark yet, but the shadowy dusk is even more dangerous. It always is. Nothing is completely dark or light. Your eyes can't focus, can't decide what is solid and what is shadow. I can feel how tightly knitted my eyebrows are, trying to concentrate on the ground in the gray-blue half-light. The light is so misleading that I don't see it at first. A lump forms in my throat. Nausea dries my mouth. There are tracks, but they're not from three pairs of little shoes. They're animal. Canine. At least four. They intersect the trail I follow now. And as I keep going, I see that they follow the trail and keep going in the same direction. There's a pack of them. And they're clearly tracking the three little girls. My instincts haven't failed me. There is indeed real danger. It is not just a matter of their scampering around the woods. I know that they can't exist anymore, but with the canine tracks and the disturbingly intelligent way they follow the same children I'm trying to find, all I see in my mind's eye are wolf-mutts. Wolf-mutts just like the ones that chased me and Peeta to the Cornucopia at the end of our first Games. I keep going, shaking, expecting a flaxen-furred, green-eyed wolf to pounce on me at any moment.

The next ten minutes are agonizing. All I want to do is run as fast as my legs will carry me, until I'm afraid that my heart will come out of my chest. It already feels that way. But I have to keep meticulously following the trail, moving painstakingly slow. It seems like it's been years by the time I hear a little scuffling and the tell-tale sniffing of the animals I'm following. I hear an excited, predatory bark and wince. I move as silently as possible, creeping up behind the pack of animals. I catch a glimpse of them from behind a tree. They're brownish, tall, lanky creatures with long, thin snouts. Not wolf-mutts. Coywolves. Hybrids of coyotes and wolves with all the power and speed of a wolf, the brains and slipperiness of a coyote, the pack mentality of both, and a frightening lack of fear of humans. No one is sure whether they're entirely a Capitol creation or not. They very well could have existed before the Dark Days, but everyone knows that whether they did or not, the Capitol took interest in the idea in the early days during the first rebellion. They discovered that they could breed a smarter, faster, more powerful animal. They could teach each generation to be more aggressive, to show less of the natural fear and wariness of its ancestors. And so they created a whole new breed of predator, and put them back out into the wilds close to the populated Districts. No one wanted to venture out of the Districts and into the woods with roving packs of the aggressive animals afoot. They're the forerunners of muttations, the Capitol's first foray into the manipulation of nature. After the wild success of that experiment, the Capitol scientists added powerful genetic manipulation into the mix, creating tracker jackers, and jabberjays, and every horrifying muttation I saw during both Games and the war. The coywolves' population did eventually diminish after the Capitol stopped breeding them, and the aggression calmed minimally. They no longer slaver at the edges of the forest around the Districts, no longer slaughter every bit of Game in the surrounding wilderness. But they do still survive. They may not come after full-grown adults anymore, but in November when game is getting scarce and they're hungry, they'll surely stalk three painfully small children.

I drag myself into a low tree, looking out at the pack of coywolves. There are five of them. They sniff the ground agitatedly, growling and circling. But circling what? I don't see anything. Not the little girls, not even a stray rabbit or squirrel. One barks savagely, and hauls itself up into the low branches of an oak opposite me. It looks up, a low, rumbling growl escaping. I follow its gaze and gasp. If not for the yellow bag, I wouldn't be able to make out the three little forms clinging to the high, swaying branches of the same tree. Not in this light, at least. But I'm torn between laughing and crying when I see Iris and her two schoolmates high in the tree. Iris has obviously dragged them up there, as she's the only one who seems comfortable in the tree, or as comfortable as they'll get with a pack coywolves stalking them. Holly is faring alright, although she seems a bit unsure of herself. Poor little Rosemary is trembling like a leaf, pressing her face to a branch, eyes clenched shut. I notice Iris has put her two friends behind her, higher up. She watches the pack below her, trying to put on the bravest face she can. But I can tell in how wide her eyes are that she knows she is in over her head.

I turn back to the pack of circling coywolves. They will not stop following the three children. They were bred to be territorial, to never let go of a chase. No one has ever seen a coywolf lose interest or run away from its prey. Once it latches on, it will not let go. I will not be able to scare them off. I have to take them all down, one by one. I have to try to make sure they don't notice my presence. I don't waste any time. I nock an arrow, pull my bowstring back slowly and quietly, and take down the one closest to me. It falls silently. I do the same with the next one. It falls as quietly. I see that Iris's eyes have widened. She recognizes the arrows, the shot that goes right through the eye. I nock a third arrow, pull the bowstring back, and release it. But the next animal moves abruptly just as I release my arrow. The arrow doesn't go right through the eye like normal. It's a fatal shot, but a slower one that hits behind the shoulder somewhere. The coywolf yelps loudly as it keels over. The remaining two look around and notice their three pack members have fallen. The one in the tree snarls and continues its ascent. It doesn't climb as fast as a squirrel or a cat would, but it still does climb with an alarming alacrity for a canine. It obviously thinks that the three girls have something to do with its fallen pack-mates. I nock a fourth arrow, panicked at how quickly and erratically it moves. I'm trying frantically to get a clean shot at it before it gets to the children. The children may be high in the tree for four-year-olds, but not high enough that a coywolf is too heavy for the branches. They're much too small to climb that high. Iris realizes that the animal is gaining on her and she throws her yellow bag at it with a little, treble growl. It throws the animal down a few branches. It snarls violently, angered, and continues up once more. It has a little limp this time. The fall must've made it bruise something. It emits something between a bark and a growl, snapping at Iris's tiny heels. It has just enough time to leap and bite her shoe off of her, trying to drag her out of the tree, but thankfully only causing damage to the heel of the shoe, when I finally get a clean shot. The coywolf tumbles from the tree, falling from branch to branch with the shoe still in its mouth. It hits the ground with a rustling thump, sprawled out unnaturally, dead.

I look wildly around for the last one. I nock a fifth arrow, looking for it. I know it hasn't left. It isn't in a coywolf's nature. I hear a twig snap behind me, but I don't have time to turn around. An immense amount of weight and momentum hits me from behind and I pitch forward out of the tree and hit the ground so hard it knocks the wind out of me. I roll as soon as I've gotten my bearings, hoping that the fall will have disoriented the animal as much as it did me and that I can get out from under it. All I manage to do is flip over before the thing is back on top of me, slavering. Its long, needle-like, white teeth are bared in my face. My bow is yards away, having flown in a different direction when I fell. It wouldn't be of any use in these close quarters anyway. I hear Iris's tiny, high voice shriek, "Mama!" I hear rustling over the rumbling growl and know she's trying to come down to help me.

"Stay in the tree!" I shriek, harsh. "Don't you dare put one foot on the ground!"

I've never spoken to her like that. She stops her descent, shocked at my tone. But she needs to know the gravity of the situation. This thing will tear her to bits if she leaves the tree. And I'm in a hazy middle ground between the now and a series of flashbacks from my first games. I tell myself that if I can fend off wolf-mutts, I can kill this coywolf. Even if I am already on the ground, pinned. I move fast, hand flying for my knife. The animal starts, alarmed, and sinks its teeth into my forearm. I shout, but manage to land a decent swipe under the thing's shoulder, even with my arm still in its jaws. It yelps and releases me, stumbling back a few paces. Pitching forward, I lunge at it, trying to get the strike under the throat that I want. But it dodges me and goes for my throat instead. I swing my leg up, kicking it straight in the face. It snarls and manages another bite, this one deeper, sinking into the muscle of my thigh. I can't help the howl that escapes me. I can feel my muscle twitch in shock, searing pain following the long, curved teeth. I might have permanent damage to that leg if I get out of here. I swing my arm around, while the coywolf's jaws are still clamped down on my leg, and bury the knife in its side. It is forced to release my leg. I can see my blood in its teeth. It wastes no time in leaping at me a third time. It won't run from me, even if I might've just landed a fatal blow at it. It will do what it was bred to do. It will fight until one of us dies. It hits me on the shoulders, knocking me back again. I try to push it off with my arms, but it's far too strong. All I can do is clamp my hands around its jaws and try to keep it from tearing out my throat. If I give, even an inch, it'll kill me. My arms shake and tremble, one of them bleeding, with the effort of keeping its teeth away from me. Slavering, the coywolf thrashes in my grasp, head whipping back and forth. I still have the knife in my fist, handle pressed into the coywolf's muzzle. I put every bit of strength I have into shoving the coywolf's head back as far as it will go, baring its throat. As fast as I can I release my right hand. The coywolf tries to wrench out of my grasp, but it doesn't have time. My knife hits its mark, swiping in a clean, red line across the animal's throat. I grimace as I feel its blood spill on my front as it twitches and falls. I sit for a moment, panting, before dragging myself up by a tree branch. I growl as I put weight on the injured thigh. I curse as I realize it's the same leg I hurt when I was pregnant with Iris. If I keep going like this, Peeta and I are going to have matching prosthetics. I stagger forward towards the tree that the girls are lodged in. I look up. Iris watches me with wide eyes, stock-still. She flinches a bit as I come closer and I stop for a moment. I realize now what I must look like to her. Right now, I am no longer her serious, stiff, but quietly loving mama. I probably look faintly like I remember myself looking directly after my first games. Dirty, covered in blood, half-crazed, and undeniably feral. She has just seen what I'm really capable of. She's seeing the real me. No decent person ever wins the games, I remember with a wince. I had just hoped that she would be a lot older before she had to learn that this is her mother.

I swallow that feeling and get down to business. It's nearly dark. We need to get out of here before the woods become any harder to navigate or any wilder. The woods come alive at night and not in a pleasant way. They've already learned that today.

"Come down. We need to get home quickly," I tell them, quick and flat. It takes a moment for them to process this, but eventually they start picking their way down. Iris helps Rosemary, who is just like a little house cat. Could barely get up the tree, and absolutely cannot get down on her own. While they descend, I sheath my knife, gather up my bow and scattered arrows, and Iris's yellow bag. Once they're on the ground, I kneel down.

"Iris, on my back."

She loops her arms around my neck. I don't have the little pack with me, but Iris will be able to hold herself there.

"Holly, on this side," I gesture with my right arm. She does as I ask silently.

"Rosemary, over here, please."

I try to say it as gently as possible. She doesn't move immediately.

"It's okay, I'm just taking you home."

This jars her into motion and she tucks herself under my other arm. It takes everything I have to be able to push myself upright with three children clinging to me and an injured leg. But I manage. After all this, I can't even justify letting them walk on their own. Not when it's this dark and when I'm not even completely certain of where I am. Iris is clinging to my back like a little squirrel, arms around my neck and legs looped around my ribcage. Holly is on my right hip, Rosemary on my left, one tucked under each arm. I move as fast as I can, but I am slowed down by the injuries and by the weight of three children. It is a grueling and near-silent walk. Once, Holly eyes me with calculating grey eyes.

"Miss Everdeen, are you okay?" she asks boldly.

"I've been worse," I answer. Holly seems to think that this is acceptable. She nods and falls silent again. Rosemary doesn't say a word the whole walk back. She buries her face in my shoulder, still trembling. Iris only speaks once, and only to me. She leans up and whispers in my ear. The others don't hear.

"I'm in trouble, right?"

"I'm surprised you even need to ask that question," I snap back, teeth gritted. She cowers and doesn't speak again.

It has just gotten dark by the time I reach the gate. Peeta is standing there, obviously about to leave to get help when he sees me. He squints. I'm barely visible.

"Katniss!" he calls, relieved. He knows the children are with me. He knows I wouldn't have left the woods without finding them. I stumble over and he opens the gate for me. I gently place Holly and Rosemary on the ground once I've passed through. Peeta plucks Iris off my back and presses her to him. I feel incredibly light without the three children clinging to me. Too light. Peeta takes a closer look at me and his eyes widen. He sees the blood all down my shirt.

"Katniss what happened?"

I shake my head to clear it about to tell him. Only I can't summon the energy to do it. The last thing I hear is Peeta's panicked voice calling my name. Then everything goes black.

When I slip back into consciousness, I can smell flour and sugar. I must be home. In the kitchen. Shift a little and groan.

"Katniss!"

My eyes flutter open and Peeta is hovering over me, hand on my cheek, staring at me with worried eyes.

"You need to tell us what happened, sweetheart," another voice growls.

"Sage is coming, too," Peeta supplies. "Your leg and arm are bleeding like crazy. What happened?"

"Coywolves," I groan. "There was a pack of them. They treed the kids. I got all of them, but one got ahold of me first."

"Must've been hungry," Haymitch growls. "I haven't seen a coywolf since I was a kid. Not many of 'em left."

I nod.

"Where are the girls?"

Peeta nods towards the fire. The three of them are lined up, huddled by the fire, watching me warily. Peeta has a blanket draped over each one.

"We brought them here first. Haymitch is about to go to the school to tell them we found them and then to their houses to bring their parents here. We're not letting them go home on their own, and we couldn't stop to bring them home after you passed out."

"How did you get me home?"

"Peeta carried you most of the way. I saw him coming back and went to help him."

"Why am I on the kitchen table?"

"That's gonna need to be stitched up," Haymitch nods to my leg. "Figured we might as well give Sage a proper work surface."

"Have you talked to Iris yet?" I ask Peeta.

"No," he shakes his head grimly. "I was waiting for you to wake up for that. Did she take her friends out there?"

I nod. "She had to have. There were no other tracks besides them and the coywolves."

Peeta nods, lips a thin, angry line.

"Let me handle it," I tell him. Peeta nods again. I was the one out there with them, so he's content to let me reprimand Iris.

"Iris, come here," I ask her, short and commanding. She shrinks a little. Her friends look at her, frightened and sympathetic. She shrugs her blanket off and walks over, staring at the ground. She's still only got one shoe on. I left the other one out in the woods. She keeps staring at the ground when she reaches me.

"Look at me."

She wrenches her gaze from the floor and eyes me with wide, frightened blue eyes.

"You took those two girls out into the woods. Yes or no?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"You must've known when you decided to do it. Why did you take them out there?"

"I thought it would be fun. To go out there like we do."

"Was it fun when you had a pack of coywolves chasing you?"

"No ma'am."

"What's your ninth rule? Do you remember?"

"Don't go into the woods alone. The woods are good and help us survive, but they are also wild, and can be dangerous."

"Did you not think I meant it when I said that the woods are dangerous? So you deliberately disobeyed me." I stare at her, hard.

"Yes," she whispers after a moment. I say nothing for a while. Iris speaks once during this silence.

"I did stay quiet and in the trees, like you said," she murmurs.

"You did. It kept you alive. But you wouldn't have had to if you had obeyed me in the first place. And even so, if I hadn't found you when I did, you could be dead right now."

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"You'll be giving an apology to those girls' parents, too. You're going to apologize for putting their children in danger and tell them that it was your fault they were missing. It was bad enough that you went out there when I told you not to. But you brought them with you, too. You could've killed yourself, but you also could've killed your friends. How would you feel if one of them had gotten hurt or even died because you took them out there?"

"Bad," she sniffs.

"You're going to apologize to their parents for putting them in danger because of your thoughtlessness."

"Yes ma'am."

"You're also not coming outside with me for the next month-"

"A month?" she exclaims loudly.

"If I can't trust you not to go out there when I tell you not to, how can I trust you to listen to me when you're out there with me?"

"But-"

"Don't you dare talk back to your mother after today. Did you forget that you could've killed her, too? Did you forget that she passed out after carrying you out of the woods? That we're waiting for a doctor right this moment to stitch up her leg and her arm? We're all lucky that's all that happened. We're lucky that she's alive right now. You will listen to her, you will say 'yes ma'am', and you will do exactly as she asks, understand?"

Peeta's voice and blue eyes are like steel. Few have ever seen him like this. It only ever happens when he's frightened. This is the first time Iris has ever seen it. She cowers, terrified at how militant her normally sweet daddy has become. She even wilts when her gaze darts for a moment to Haymitch. He stares at her, sideways, with that hard, grizzled look he gets that says he's seen things that none of us could imagine. She ducks her head.

"Yes sir. Yes ma'am," she whispers, addressing me and Peeta both.

I nod once. I brush the back of my hand across her forehead for a moment.

"Go sit back by the fire. You're still freezing."

I get one more, whispered, "Yes ma'am," before she slips back to the hearth, sitting between her two friends once more. They huddle around her sympathetically.

"I'm going out to the school and to their houses," Haymitch growls in the midst of cinching a belt above the bite on my thigh. He finishes with one last, good, hard tug that makes me wince. "Be back as soon as I can."

With that he trudges out the door. Peeta sighs and eyes me worriedly.

"How close was it?"

"What? You mean how close was it to the children getting hurt, or me getting killed?"

"Both, I guess."

"Uncomfortably close. For both of us. One of them nearly took off Iris's foot trying to drag her down. It only got her shoe, but if I hadn't gotten a good shot on it then, it would've dragged her right out of that tree."

"And you?"

"It got me from behind and knocked me over. Pinned me down twice. You see the bites. The second time, I had to hold its mouth away from me before it got to my throat. I was very lucky tonight."

Peeta swallows hard. He's clearly trying not to think about what could've happened. He easily could've lost us both tonight. I don't like to think about what state he would've been in. I can't imagine how frightened he was, just standing alone, waiting by the gate as the sun kept sinking and we didn't appear. He sits in one of the chairs by the table and rests his head on my stomach, ignoring the dried blood down my shirt. I grab his hand in mine, and run the other one through his blond hair. We are all, me, Peeta, and even Haymitch, thinking about how uncomfortably used to this sort of thing we are. As if we almost expect it. Constant danger and threat of loss. We are all wondering if it will ever stop.

My line of thought is interrupted when the door swings open.

"I don't see you often, but believe me, your calls are always the most interesting," Sage sighs. There's a touch of sympathy in her eyes that's not usually there. I suppose since this catastrophe is clearly not my fault, she's going to spare me the usual humiliation.

"Trust me, I wish they weren't so interesting."

She nods once and gets right to business, setting her bag down on an empty chair. Peeta silently moves away from me and tends to something he's got in the oven. She goes for my arm first.

"Haymitch said it was a coywolf. Personally, I've never even seen one. I've heard they're nasty, though."

"They are," I mutter. "It only got me twice, once here, and once in the thigh."

Sage nods, examining my arm. I wince as she prods at it.

"It went clean through to the bone," she tells me, matter-of-fact. "Looks like it broke a bone, too. Bit hard enough to crack it right in two. How did you carry all of them out of there with a broken arm?" she asks, impressed.

"Believe it or not, I've been through worse," I snort, sarcastic.

Sage nods quietly.

"I suppose that would give you the stamina to keep functioning with broken bones. I'm sorry, I didn't think."

I shrug. "It's not a big deal."

I idly watch Peeta bring dinner over to the three girls sitting by the fire. They nearly inhale it, famished after everything that happened tonight.

"Well, it'll need setting just a bit," she tells me.

"Great."

Suddenly, there's wildly sharp pain running down my arm as Sage squeezes the bones, hard, popping them back in place. I can't help but call out.

"Dammit! Sage, what was that? A warning would've been nice!"

She shrugs. "I never warn patients when I'm setting a bone. You tense if I warn you and then the bone doesn't set right because your muscles are too tense. But it's set now."

"No kidding," I snap.

"Oh hush and put your arm back out, it needs stitches, too."

"What about the leg?"

"Whoever put the belt around you did a good job. The bleeding is pretty slow. I can get to it in a minute."

I nod and grit my teeth as Sage starts stitching the wound. My arm is trembling, hyper-sensitive from both the pain of a broken, recently set bone and the fiery sting of an open wound. Sage quietly holds my arm steady. I'm distracted a bit as the door opens. Haymitch comes lumbering through, followed by two young, blond-haired, blue eyed people I assume are Rosemary's parents. Followed by them is a tired-looking man with dark hair, grey eyes, and olive skin like mine. Rory Hawthorne. I haven't seen him since he was fourteen years old. Like me and Peeta, he does look so worn. But I can still see that face somewhere in there, the young one that I remember. It's hard to find in how much he's aged since I saw him and how much we've all seen. But it's in there.

"These are the Millers, Rosemary's parents," Haymitch introduces them half-heartedly. I nod at them once and give them a strained, "Hello." Peeta gives them a polite "Good to meet you." They eye me as I wince, Sage still stitching away at the ragged wound in my arm. It must look very strange. They've probably only ever seen me once or twice, nearly twenty years ago, on a screen somewhere, either running through an arena or posing in one of those propos. The first time they see me in person, I've got blood all down my front, and two gaping wounds. I probably look a lot more like my on-screen persona right now than they would've thought. Haymitch seems to pick up on this.

"Don't worry, this is normal," he growls. I shoot him a glare, but otherwise remain silent. Haymitch doesn't bother to introduce Rory, since we know him already. I grit my teeth, sigh, and mutter, "Hey, Rory."

He laughs a little, a shadow of his younger self coming through. "Hey, Katniss. You haven't changed."

I roll my eyes at him, but I do nearly smile. It would indeed have been just like my seventeen-year-old self to come in from the woods with injuries like these and send everyone scrambling to deal with them. People in and out of the house, doctors, friends, and the like.

"Thank you so much for finding Rosemary. We weren't sure what to do. We never would've been able to track her down," the young, blonde woman tells me gratefully and a little timidly.

"I was going to say the same thing," Rory interjects, all semblance of playfulness and humor gone. "I might have been able to track them a little, but not that far. And forget surviving a fight with a pack of coywolves. Thank you."

I shrink under the attention. I've never fared well with praise. I'd much rather slip through my day-to-day interactions without fuss.

"You wouldn't have had to worry in the first place if that one," I gesture vaguely to Iris, wincing as Sage's needle keeps stitching, "hadn't dragged them out there. Iris, don't you have something to say to your friends' parents?"

Iris wilts, but stands up and musters up whatever courage she has in her little body. She shuffles up to the three standing in my kitchen.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs to them.

"For what?" I prompt.

"I'm sorry for taking Rosemary and Holly outside. I took them to the woods. It was my fault they were missing. I'm sorry," she whispers.

Rosemary's father bewilderedly and quietly nods and says, "It's alright." I wince inwardly at that, thinking that it's not at all alright, but I let it go. Rory just nods once curtly and says, "Thank you. Apology accepted, young lady." I nod to myself, thinking Rory's response is a bit more appropriate. I want Iris to feel some culpability. It appears that she feels it quite keenly as she goes to sit back down. I see a little stream of tears on her face. It kills me to watch her cry. But I know it's important for her to understand. I need her to understand, not only how egregious it was that she put others in danger, but I need her to understand not to put herself in danger like that. I'm reeling with the knowledge that my daughter almost died tonight. I'm just waiting for the numbness of adrenaline to wear off and for that knowledge to hit harder.

"I'm sorry to just pop in and tell you I have to leave again, but I'm afraid Holly and I need to head home. We left Hazel in charge and we don't want to leave her alone too long," Rory tells me remorsefully.

"We should probably head home, too," Rosemary's parents tell me timidly.

"It's quite alright, " Peeta assures them. "It's late and we've all had a rough day."

"Thank you again," Rory tells me as he turns to leave. Rosemary's parents nod in ascent. I nod once back and with that, the three of them and the two little girls are out the door.

"Come on Iris, it's bed time," Peeta ventures sternly. She follows him up the stairs without a word. For a moment, there's only silence besides the sound of my own gritting teeth and the nearly imperceptible slip of Sage's needle as she finishes stitching my arm. Haymitch has long since disappeared, most likely having slipped out while Rosemary and Holly's parents were in. I hear Peeta's quiet voice, most likely responding to a question of iris's. His tenor voice carries much farther than her weaker, treble one.

"Well yes, we're angry because you did something that we asked you not to. But we forgive you and we love you."

I close my eyes and sigh, listening

"No, mama still loves you, of course she does. She was just scared."

"Scared?" I finally hear Iris, voice raised in surprise and disbelief. "She's not scared of anything!"

"Yes she is. She doesn't want to lose you, just like I don't. And we almost lost you tonight. That's the scariest thing that could've happened to your mama. She was scared because she loves you so much."

"Really?" A sniff follows her question.

"Really. Now enough questions, it's time to go to sleep."

I start as Sage starts the first stitch on my leg and I remember that she's here. For a while, I just focus on her. I can't listen to the conversation going on upstairs. It brings into too sharp focus everything that happened tonight. Every shiver that's starting as the adrenaline wears off, every waking nightmare that will carry into dream-world ones. I just watch Sage, trying to take my mind off of everything. I watch her lean against the table, bent over my thigh, scowling in concentration, as close to the table as she can get. Which, oddly, isn't very close. I frown lightly as I stare at her, a good few more inches back from the table than she should be. I narrow my eyes.

"Sage. Are you-"

"Pregnant? Yes."

"Oh," is all I say, surprised at how blunt and no-nonsense she is even after all this time, as I start thinking. Sage isn't married as far as I know. I am nearly positive that she lives alone. She seems to pick up on my confused thought process and chuckles.

"District 6 isn't quite as traditional as 12," she smirks. "People have been just as confused as you for weeks. Everyone thinks it's so strange to be pregnant and to be living alone with no sign of any sort of significant other. I understand it. The district is small, and there are traditions and social expectations that have been a part of life here for a long time. But I suppose I just don't really see the point in some of them. I don't want to be married but I'd also like not to be alone. The opportunity presented itself, I thought 'well, children would be nice, why not?' and I took it."

"I wasn't trying to pry. I don't think it's odd," I scramble to try and cushion my slightly intrusive question.

"Oh, you do think it, just a little. But it's alright. You don't mean anything by it. You're just a product of a different social structure is all."

I nod slowly, digesting all of this information. I don't know what else to say. Sage seems to enjoy watching me squirm. I settle with an uncomfortable muttered, "congratulations" and keep quiet after that. Sage laughs an amused "thank you" before continuing to work on my thigh. Peeta appears after a few minutes, having gotten Iris to sleep. He offers Sage dinner, but she politely declines. I know from experience it may well be less politeness and more that her stomach isn't behaving like it normally would. She quietly finishes the stitches, bandages the thigh, and splints my arm.

"Not too much activity with the arm," she warns me. "I know you'll still hunt and that you won't listen to me if I tell you not to. So just go easy on it, okay?"

"I will," I assure her.

Sage replies with an unconvinced, "hm" and turns towards the door.

"Thank you so much," Peeta thanks her. "I'm sorry we had to drag you out here so late."

Sage shrugs once. "It's part of the job. I'm used to it." With that, she sweeps out the door, and closes it with a precise 'click."

The silence bears on me. It's as if someone keeps draping weights along my shoulders as the seconds tick by. Peeta stands close to me, just watching, as if waiting for me to act. I do after a minute. I was waiting for the reality of tonight to hit. And it hits now, like a freight train. I start shaking. I realize I haven't taken a breath in a bit. Peeta picks up on it.

"Katniss, calm down. It's okay, just breathe."

I start shaking my head wildly.

"Katniss, _breathe_."

When I take my next gasping breath, I exhale into a shaking, strangled sob. Peeta wraps his arms around me immediately, trying so hard to calm me.

"It's alright."

"No," I shake my head wildly. "I almost-

"I know. But you didn't, so it's alright."

"No, it's not! I almost lost her." I break down fully then, forehead resting on his shoulder, unable to keep the choking sobs at bay.

"But she's alright. You made sure of that."

"She almost wasn't," I insist. "They looked just like the wolf-mutts." I gasp. This is not entirely true. Aesthetically, the two animals look completely different. But to me they may as well have been muttations.

"They weren't wolf-mutts. You saved her, you made sure she was fine."

I just shake my head. "I can't lose her-" I whisper. I will not know how to live without Iris. She is the first person I've allowed myself to love the way I did Prim. My bouncing, rambunctious, slightly wild, but undeniably sweet-natured daughter. Her little dimpled smile, blue eyes just like Peeta's, and the long, dark braid just like me. If she is ever taken away, I will not survive the blow. It would kill me.

"You're not going to lose her," Peeta assures me, scrambling to soften my panic.

"I can't." I keep shaking my head, forehead pressed to his shoulder repeating that. "I can't, I can't."

Once I've calmed down enough to stop the hiccups, Peeta kisses me on the forehead. The tears keep flowing. "We should go to bed. You need to sleep."

I shake my head. "I don't want to."

"Katniss-"

"I don't want to go to sleep!" I tell him, fearful. I know what will happen if I do. Nightmares worse than everything that happened tonight. I'll watch my daughter die in front of me in my dreams if I go to sleep

"So what are you going to do? Peeta asks, highly concerned.

"Stay awake," I tell him resolutely.

I keep my forehead on his shoulder. Peeta never even tries to move. He stays with me, stock-still, and keeps his arms wrapped as tightly around me as possible. I cannot do anything but sit there for a while. After that, I begin to actively cling to Peeta, instead of letting him try to keep me together. I actively try to pull myself together this way. I throw my arms around his broad, warm shoulders. I kiss him desperately. He stands there and lets me. He knows that he is the only reason I haven't lost my sanity tonight. He kisses me gently and warmly back, eyebrows furrowed in worry and sadness. He knows how hard I will take tonight. He knows it'll haunt me for a while yet. He knows that he is both constant support and, at the moment, momentary distraction. The familiar hunger I feel now is born of emotional need. He knows that and doesn't care. He cares that I make it through the night in one piece and that's all. Peeta is all warmth, and steadiness, and calm and gentleness tonight. He does eventually manage to coax me out of the kitchen, but that is as far as he gets. I do not go to sleep when we get to our room. And Peeta doesn't either. He stays with me. He holds me warmly as I kiss him, and cry, and cling to him for dear life all night long. He holds me steady as I gasp and shudder, tears pouring down my face and landing on his cheeks, on his shoulders, on his chest. He doesn't let go of me until grey light peeks in through our windows.

_**Hope you all enjoyed! Sorry for the cliffhanger last time, haha! Thank you for all the awesome feedback last chapter! And as always, if you have any thoughts about this chapter, do pop by and leave a review! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	14. Chapter 14

_**Hey all! I'm so sorry I didn't update on Friday as usual! I had family visiting me and we were traveling a lot, so it was a bit difficult to get to a computer. I apologize again for the wait! I updated as soon as possible :) So without further ado, here's Chapter 14! Enjoy!**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. No suing, please.**_

The next few weeks are impossibly rocky for me. Standing on the roof to watch Iris go to and from school isn't the comfort it used to be. I still do it, because I'll go absolutely insane if I don't. But I've been reduced to an anxiety-ridden mess. I know that Hazel is there keeping a sharp eye on the children, and I know that after a near-death altercation with a pack of coywolves, Iris is not likely to do it again. But I sit there, biting my nails to the quick every day, sitting on the roof in the morning and the afternoon. It is enough to drive Peeta mad with worry. Of course he is also affected, but it manifests more in the occasional one or two episodes more than usual. It's me who has the unbearable anxiety and nightmare-fueled insomnia. I stick closer to home than usual in these weeks. Peeta does the same. We don't have to say anything to one another to know we're both shaken up by Iris's mishap in the woods. I spend nearly every minute that we both have spare time nestled up to him. I know Peeta would normally be glad for the contact. But he knows it's because I'm restless and upset. He just sighs and rests his chin on the top of my head. Sometimes I think I'll be the death of Peeta with how hard he worries about me.

I know it will take me weeks, maybe months, to recover. I can tell in how completely my anxiety affects nearly everything. First is sleep. I barely sleep anymore. I try, but I just wake up at least three times a night, a departure from the usual one or two. I'm used to nightmares, but not ones like these. They are so oddly, incredibly vivid. Sometimes, Iris is in danger. That one happens frequently. Other times, it's Peeta. In the most common one, I dream that I'm drowning, water surging over my head as both Iris and Peeta look on, horrified and helpless. Water everywhere, filling my mouth and nose and lungs. I wake up gasping for breath, looking to escape the surging water.

Second, I don't eat as much. It's not a conscious thing, but I find my face looking a little more gaunt than usual. Sometimes I pick at my plate and it mostly stays untouched. It nearly turns my stomach, although only mildly. Third, I feel weaker and more sluggish than normal. I blame that on the disturbed sleep. Peeta tries to distract me as much as possible. He won't let me sit, unresponsive, for too long. He knows my mind will run wild. He ropes me into helping him bake things, almost like he does with Iris. I don't mind it. He manages to coax some smiles and even a laugh or two out of me. I sit in the room with him while he paints, calmed by the sound of the brush against canvas. When he thinks I'm having a particularly hard day, Peeta will drag me outside, sketchpad in tow. If we have time, he'll usually drag me out to the lake. Sometimes I smile to myself when watch him grimace when he thinks I'm not looking as we tramp through the woods, Peeta's clumsier steps often catching on tree roots and brambles. He continues doggedly on, determined to see me smile.

It's bad enough that even Haymitch, who is usually too drunk and sullen to be observant, notices that I'm not faring well. One day, around noon, he squints across the green and me and Peeta and starts shuffling over. I watch him, curious. Haymitch doesn't often come over just to chat. He shows up for lunch every few days, but keeps to himself otherwise. He sits right next to me and Peeta on our porch.

"You two can't keep going like this. You're going to eat yourselves alive worrying."

My knee-jerk reaction is to strike back, defensive. Haymitch's intent is usually critical and I chafe under it.

"You didn't almost lose your kid-"

"Can you ever take advice without being evil about it?" he exclaims, taking a long swig out of his bottle after, as if I've already stressed him enough that he needs a drink.

"Do you always assume that you're all-knowing? For someone without kids, you seem to have an awful lot of advice!"

"I know more than you, and that's all I have to assume," he smirks smugly.

"Haymitch, you have no idea what it's like!" I snarl.

"Katniss," Peeta ventures cautiously, trying to calm the tension. I continue right over him.

"Come talk to me when you've known what it feels like!"

Haymitch cuts his eyes at me with a hardness and sharpness that tells me I've crossed a line somewhere.

"You want to know why I keep trying to help you out? How I have advice for you? How I obviously do know something about children?"

His tone is accusatory and challenging and comes in a harsh, biting growl.

"I'd love to," I mutter, unable to keep myself from biting back a little, even when I know that I've been too harsh.

"I damn-near raised my baby brother," he growls, acidic. "My parents had to spend every minute working to feed us. My mother took care of him for a week after she had him, and then he was mine. I was the oldest, so it was my job. So you should be happy you still have her. _You_ come talk to _me_ when you know what it feels like."

I sit, silent, eyes wide and mouth dry. After a moment, my brain starts working again.

"I'm sorry," I croak.

Haymitch shrugs.

"Guess we're even."

I know he's referring to the flippant comment he threw in my face right after Prim died.

"I wondered how you knew what to do with her," Peeta chimes in. "How long did you...take care of him?"

I know Peeta really is asking how old the child was when Haymitch was reaped. We know what happened to him after that. The Capitol took Haymitch's whole family from him. Everyone who meant something to him.

"Till he was four. Same age as your girl."

I blanch. I feel sick. Four years old. That's how old Haymitch's little brother was when the Capitol killed him.

"I'm sorry," Peeta supplies gently. I keep staring at the ground.

Haymitch scowls.

"You two should quit moping. I know you almost lost her, but she's here. Be thankful for it."

He knocks back more of the sharp-smelling liquor in his bottle. I inwardly kick myself.

Things get marginally better after Haymitch acidly knocks a little sense into me. I try not to be so wildly affected by everything. I try to remember that I _haven't_ lost her, like Haymitch lost his baby brother.

I take her and Peeta outside exactly a month after her escapade in the woods. She smiles hesitantly at first. But it breaks into a full-on grin when we pass the gate. Peeta carries her on his shoulders as I still have a slight limp from the bite on my leg, and my arm will be in a splint for at least another month. Probably more since I refuse to stop hunting with it. She runs, giggling like mad, straight into the water. Peeta sighs about the state of her clothes, but I smile. And then I laugh with her, doubling over. Peeta's eyebrows slide, concerned. I shake my head. I'm not sure how to explain my sudden outburst. I'm normally a quiet, guarded sort of person. Outbursts of overt happiness are not common. I don't know if it's relief that she is indeed here, disbelief that I ever agreed to have her in the first place, finding out how glad I was that I did, or whether if I don't laugh, I'll surely cry. I continue to cackle as Iris dashes back out of the lake, still dripping, launching herself at me, soaking the front of my shirt. I kiss her drippy, dark head. She squeals and turns tail, running right back to the water.

"Are you alright?" Peeta asks, both wary and grinning at the prospect that I seem happy at the moment.

I shrug. "I don't know. But when do I ever?"

He smiles kindly and wordlessly leans into me.

"I'm just glad you're smiling. I worry about you."

I sigh. "I know. You always have."

Before he can reply, in a rare gesture, I lean up and kiss him, long and soft and slow. Whatever reply he has disappears and is replaced by an expression of utter peace; his eyes are still closed, blond eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, an easy smile on his face. I smile back, as glad that he's not worrying as he is that I'm smiling for once. We sit, sometimes absorbed in each other, sometimes watching Iris splash about in the shallows. I think in this moment that my worries are over. And I do stop worrying, mostly. The curious thing is, though, that the strange, vivid dreams continue. There is still a slowness to my gait, a restlessness in sleep. Sometimes I still pick at my plate. Peeta cautiously asks me about it one evening after we've put Iris to bed.

"Are you alright? I thought you were doing a bit better, Katniss, but you're still waking up a lot and-" he trails off.

"I thought I was alright," I venture, as confused as he. "I don't know," I mutter, frustrated.

"Maybe you're not as alright as you thought? Maybe you you just think you are," he suggests, pulling me a little closer to him.

"It's not like I can do anything about it if that's true," I snap lightly.

"Give it time. I know what Haymitch said, but don't pressure yourself. You don't have to be better immediately."

He plays with the end of my braid. I nod, staring at the bed sheet.

The next day, as soon as we've seen Iris off to school, I'm out in the woods. By the time I've run down a particularly elusive rabbit, my chest is heaving with the exertion. This is not normal. Of course I breathe heavier than normal if I'm running, but being this exhausted is shockingly abnormal. I growl and fire off an arrow out of pure frustration. It embeds itself in a tree with a sickening, satisfying "thunk." I yank the arrow back out, growling again with the strain, and stalk out of the woods, muttering darkly to myself about disturbed sleep schedules. My customers who see me in town keep their interactions brief. They've all known me long enough to know when I'm in a foul mood. They know I won't snap out of it anytime soon.

By the time I get to Sage, who insisted yesterday that I stop by today so she can check on my arm, I am seething. I stomp past her when she opens the door, snapping, "Do you have anything that will get me to sleep through the night?"

She sighs, disgruntled.

"Good morning to you, too."

"I can't even make it through a hunting trip without feeling like I have no energy left. I wake up three, four, sometimes five times a night," I rant fiercely, ignoring her annoyance.

"Well, if you'd hush for a minute, I could take your blood and see what's wrong with you. Well, more than your normal issues, anyway."

"You don't have to be so harsh,"

"Oh yes I do. I had to deal with you when you were pregnant. Now you have to deal with me." Sage smiles a rare, wicked smile, dragging my good arm across and resting it on the slight belly she has now. She swipes alcohol across the bend of my elbow, pops me on the arm sharply a few times, and slides the needle into the soft skin in one swoop. I hiss, inhaling in one, quick breath.

"How much longer do you have?" I mutter, trying to be a little less abrasive.

"Four months."

"Mm. Hopefully you're having an easier time of it than I had."

"In some ways, yes. But pregnancy is never particularly enjoyable for anyone and I'm no exception. Which means that today would be a good day to attempt being less of a handful than usual."

I snort at her.

"So why are you waking up so much?" she asks briskly, directing the conversation back to me.

"Nightmares."

"But you have those all the time, correct? Why are these an exception?"

"I don't know. There are more of them. They seem more real than usual."

Sage nods.

"Well, unfortunately, you'll have to come back in a week before I give you anything. It takes time to process blood work, she tells me, slipping the needle out of my elbow, pressing a wad of gauze to the site. "I actually have to know what's wrong with you," she shakes a few vials of my blood at me. I grimace. Sage chuckles at my squeamishness, triumphant. I huff.

"What am I supposed to do for another week?"

Sage shrugs.

"Let me see your arm."

I grit my teeth, annoyed that she's refused to give a real answer to my question.

"You really are abusing your pregnancy privileges, aren't you?"

"Oh yes. I intend to abuse them for as long as possible."

"Joy."

"You know, if you'd stop hunting, even for a week, you'd get this thing off so much faster."

"Why do you think that having this conversation will be of any use?"

Sage grits her teeth audibly.

"Well, expect to have this on for another month and a half."

"Fine."

"And come back in a week. Now go home before either one of us gets too annoyed to deal with one another."

I laugh a little and she cracks a small smile.

The next week is an arduous one. My lack of sleep continues to take a large toll on me. I'm watching myself thin out, feeling myself get slower and slower.

"You asked Sage about all this, right?" Peeta asks mid-week.

"Yes. She told me to wait until next week," I growl. "As if she needs to know _why _I can't sleep. If I can't sleep, I can't sleep. It shouldn't matter _why_. Why can't she help me _now_?"

"She just wants to make sure what she gives you works and is safe. Be patient with her."

"Why should I when she's not with me?"

"Katniss...you are aware that you're a bit...well-"

"Peeta, don't finish that sentence."

"Right."

By the time my visit with Sage the next week rolls around, I am at my wit's end. When she opens the door, I open my mouth to snipe at her, but she beats me to it.

"Get in here," she snaps, dragging me in quite roughly, by the wrist.

"If you weren't pregnant-" I threaten as she forces me into a chair.

She's obviously highly annoyed with me, more so than usual.

"Any reason you're so upset with me? What have I done now? Am I being 'uncooperative'?" I mock her.

"It was supposed to be my turn, dammit," she snipes, ignoring me.

"What the hell? Your turn for what? Being a pain?"

"No, of course not. You're _always_ a pain. That's nothing new."

"Well, then what's wrong with me? How about you tell me why I can't sleep and then I'll consider being less of a pain! Am I sick or something?"

"No, you're not sick. You're pregnant, you idiot."

I say nothing, think nothing, feel nothing. Did she say what I think she said?

"Did you hear me?"

I shake my head, in denial and disbelief. Sage takes it to mean that I indeed didn't hear her and repeats everything.

"You. Are. Pregnant. And it was supposed to be my turn! Now I have to deal with you again."

"That's not possible."

"And why not?"

"I take something. Every month. And _you_ give it to me!"

"It's only 99 percent effective."

"That is a one percent chance. _One percent_. I'm not pregnant."

"Oh yes you are."

"That one percent doesn't matter!"

"It did for me!"

I sit, silent, stunned.

"You think I planned this?" she asks me, laughing. "I took just as much precaution as you did! We see how that worked out."

"But why haven't I thrown everything up yet? I'm supposed to be throwing up my internal organs! I did last time! I didn't even notice anything!"

"Katniss, what do you think those vivid dreams were? The disturbed sleep? And no, you're not throwing up, but you're also not eating normally. You feel sluggish and tired all the time. Those are _all _symptoms of pregnancy. Just because they're subtler than last time doesn't mean you're not still just as pregnant."

I shake my head back and forth for a long while, unable to do anything else. Sage starts to eye me warily when I don't speak for a few minutes.

"This isn't supposed to happen," I croak. I start to hyperventilate. I am struggling to get over nearly losing Iris. I've been spending quite a few nights, unable to sleep, clinging to Peeta who, if he can help it, also refuses to sleep while I'm awake. All in a few moments of emotional need. And in my emotional weakness, the universe throws this in my face. I was terrified to have Iris. I cannot be pregnant. It was only supposed to be her. I am unequipped to handle this. "It's not supposed to happen," I whisper again. Sage's normally hard eyes soften a little. She sits across from me. For once, I feel as if we're on an equal plane.

"Breathe for a second. This is heavy news. Trust me, I know," Sage chuckles bitterly. "When I said I saw the opportunity for children and took it, I didn't mean I planned it. This happened," she gestures to her swollen belly. "I had to decide whether to go through with it or not.

"Why did you?" I ask curiously, trying to focus on another person for as long as possible. It will delay my having to face this.

Sage shrugs. "I've always been a bit of a loner. People have always thought of me as a little abrasive. I am, of course, not that it makes it any easier. People respected me, but no one has wanted to get particularly close to me. No one who is in particularly good company moves from home to work in a District with a population that barely reaches the thousands, most of whom are elderly or very, very young. I don't expect I'll ever be married. No one has shown much interest, and I'm not too eager myself. But I'd like not to be alone. This happened in a fit of loneliness, to be frank. I rarely think this way, but I figured it had to have happened for a reason. With only a one percent chance and coming from an act born of loneliness, it just didn't seem like a coincidental thing. So I decided I'd go through with things."

I nod, still looking at the floor.

"You've already had one," she ventures. "I'd say it turned out pretty well, right?"

I nod numbly.

"So what's one more?"

"I didn't plan this-"

"Just because you didn't plan it doesn't mean it's not supposed to be."

"It's just...this happened because I was scared," I tell her, unsure why I'm telling her at all. I so rarely admit fear. "It was the night Iris went missing."

"I can see why it's unnerving. You're scared after nearly losing one child and suddenly you have another one to worry about. And you don't strike me as the sort of person who takes surprises like this well. Sorry, but you're a control freak, Katniss Everdeen."

I scowl darkly and Sage laughs.

"I'm almost _forty_."

"You're a few years shy," Sage dismisses my concern. "And in very good shape."

I stay silent, swallowing hard.

"Well, if you don't want to go through with it, of course that's fine and it's your decision."

I shake my head vehemently.

"I couldn't do that."

"Fine by me. In that case, don't worry so much. You're absolutely healthy, you have a daughter who will probably be terribly excited if I know her well enough. And Peeta..."

I flinch.

"Oh, stop, Peeta will be beside himself. If you're actually worried about his reaction then, I'm sorry, I've lost nearly all respect for you."

"You're so encouraging," I bite.

"I try. You have a supportive family and good health. Maybe this is supposed to happen. I'm of a mind to think it is. Try to be happy about it, if you can. You're certainly not alone."

For the second time in two weeks, I am kicking myself. Sage isn't attempting to make me feel guilty like Haymitch did. Not by any means. But once again, I find myself an object of envy. I am not used to it. Pity, definitely. Fear or respect? Yes. But not envy. I am unused to being someone who has what others desperately want. Sage, I realize, would give quite a lot to have her own Peeta and Iris. I nod, still a bit numb. I fumble over the next few words, unused to this sort of situation.

"Sage, if you ever need help, Peeta and I are here," I venture awkwardly. "You put up with me, so you definitely deserve some help-"

Sage nods her short, curt nod.

"I expect I'll be just fine. But I appreciate the offer."

"Well, you know where to find us," I continue.

"Oh, I do. All too well," she rolls her eyes. I growl under my breath, but it's not malicious.

"Why do you think I feel sort of normal? Iris had me throwing up for nearly four months."

"Well, Iris is a handful by her very nature. Takes after you. Maybe this one is just a little more mild-mannered."

"I hope so," I mutter.

"For your sake, so do I. The last thing Iris needs is a partner in crime."

"Oh, she already has a few."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

Sage does something then that I've never seen her do. She giggles. Not her usual, humorless chuckle. A bubbling little giggle. I smile back. She shakes her head.

"Speaking of, you should probably head back if you want any hope of telling Peeta before that girl gets back home."

I nod wordlessly once more, slinging my game bag over my shoulder.

"When should I come back?" I sigh.

"Two weeks," she answers, business-like once more.

I turn and make my way out of her practice and towards the Victor's Village. Neither one of us has to say anything to know that we're no longer merely acquaintances. Somewhere during that very stressful visit, Sage and I became friends. I smile a bit to myself. I've had few friends in my life, and lost almost all of them. Another is always a welcome change.

But now I have another task at hand. Telling Peeta. I can't imagine that he would react badly. But it is a surprise for him as much as it was me.

Peeta knows something is amiss as soon as I cross the threshold. I know it's in the way that I walk and in the way I look at him. From his reaction, I must look terrified. I _am_ terrified.

"Katniss, what's wrong? What happened?" he questions, crossing the room in a few long, quick strides.

"Nothing's wrong-"

"What did Sage say? You're sick, aren't you?"

"No-"

"Then why?-"

"Peeta! I'm trying to tell you!"

"I'm sorry," he laughs sheepishly. "You just look really scared. I assumed something was wrong. So what is it?"

I don't say anything at first. I open my mouth, but the words don't come out. Peeta watches me mildly and expectantly. I shake my head. Tears start welling up from the sheer eight of everything. Peeta's eyes widen, and I know I have to spit it out before I terrify him any further

"Katniss?"

"I'm pregnant."

Peeta blinks, unresponsive.

"What?"

"I'm pregnant."

Peeta continues to stare at me for a minute before he frowns and speaks.

"You told me you're pregnant. Real or not real?"

I look at the floor.

"Real."

"But...that thing you take."

"Apparently there's a one percent chance that it won't work. And evidently I'm that one percent."

Peeta doesn't react further for another two minutes before his eyes widen.

"Oh my god."

I nod, wary. Peeta doesn't seem to want to react without testing my mood first.

"So...are you going to-"

I know what Peeta is asking. I cut him off just as I did Sage. I look at my still-flat belly.

"It's here to stay," I assure him.

"Are you alright?" he asks, concerned.

"I'm shaken up. But I'll live."

Peeta watches me still.

"It's okay, Peeta, I know you're excited," I roll my eyes at him. I don't manage to get in any more words. Peeta kisses me, cutting off any reply I have. I can feel the beginning of his tears on my cheek. When he breaks away, he buries his face in my neck. I can feel the tears, hear the sniffles.

"Are you okay, Peeta?" I ask after a few minutes of this.

He peeks out from his place in the crook of my neck.

"Alright? I'm-" Peeta never finds the word he's looking for. "I never thought we'd have _two-"_

"Neither did I. I'm sorry. I know you'd be happy with a dozen children," I tell him, feeling a bit guilty seeing how elated Peeta is at the news that I'm having a second child. Peeta shakes his head.

"For a while I didn't even think we'd have Iris. And you had such a rough time with her, I'd never have asked." Peeta stops for a moment, choked up.

"Well, now you've got two," I smile, if anything enjoying watching how elated he is.

"Yeah," he nods, in disbelief. Then his eyebrows knit a little.

"Why aren't you sick like last time?"

"I am a little, but not the same," I shrug. "Maybe this one is a little more like you. Calmer than Iris for sure."

"Well, that's not too difficult," he chuckles.

"No," I shake my head, agreeing with him.

"When do you think we should tell Iris?"

"In a few months. After the trouble I had with her, I don't want to have to explain if things don't go well."

Peeta nods, understanding.

"Do you think it's a boy or a girl?" he asks gleefully, already hopelessly excited.

"I have no clue," I roll my eyes. "What do _you_ think?" I ask him, humoring him a little.

"Hm," he frowns lightly, looking me up and down as if it'll give him some clues here and there. "I think it's another girl," he concludes, smiling.

"You sure that's okay with you? You'll be hopelessly outnumbered."

Peeta shrugs, still grinning.

"I get along with girls, if you haven't noticed."

"You have a point. What if it's a boy? Will you be upset?" I tease him.

"You know I won't care," he smiles, soft and serious. "Are you really alright, though? You were really shaken up when you found out about Iris. And we planned her."

I sigh heavily.

"I have no idea. The timing isn't the best. Just because of what happened with Iris a few weeks ago."

"I know," Peeta answers gravely.

"But Sage says she thinks this is supposed to happen. I'm not sure. I'd like to think she's right. But whether or no, it's happened and it's not changing. So I suppose I'll get over it, won't I?"

"Well, you're glad Iris is here. I bet you'll like this one just as well."

"If I can handle Iris, I can handle just about anything this one throws at me," I tell him, sighing. "I'm sure this one will be just fine."

Peeta just smiles and kisses me once more. I close my eyes and rest my forehead on his shoulder, still disbelieving, but content.

_**Hope you all enjoyed! Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews from last time! I should be back on my weekly update schedule, so expect an update next week around this time. :) And, as always, if you have thoughts about this chapter, do pop by and leave a review. Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	15. Chapter 15

_**Hi everyone! So, I know it's been a long time. And I'm so, so sorry for the huge gap between**__**chapters! I know a lot of you were wondering why in the world it took me so long to get this chapter up here. Well, the short answer is that...life...happened. The long one is that I was traveling for two weeks in June and had no access to a computer. The next week I had to pack and move all of my belongings across the Atlantic for the second time this year. Then I had computer trouble plus I had to get my life going again once I got back into the U.S. So yeah, haha. Things got hectic. But I'm sorry that there was a gap, and I thank you for all the reviews during the little hiatus! I should be back on track now. Although, I've learned not to make guarantees anymore, haha. I'll try my hardest not to go on hiatus for that long again! So, without further ado, here's chapter 15! Enjoy!**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not a thing. Don't sue me!**_

I groan, head dropping back to its resting place on my pillow.

"Are you okay, mama?"

I sigh deeply.

"I was before you jumped on me," I mutter.

"What?"

"Nothing. Mama's fine."

"Iris? Where are you?" I hear Peeta call from downstairs. "You're not bothering your mama, are you?"

I look at her pointedly and she shrinks a little, giggling, before bolting downstairs. I discover this week that contending with Iris while pregnant is near-impossible. It's difficult to summon the energy to look after her even when I feel normal. But this baby is sucking the energy right out of me, worse than Iris used to do. Then again, this one so far doesn't make me feel as if I'm going to throw up everything I've ever ingested. Not until Iris jumped on the bed just now, landing directly on my upper stomach. I grit my teeth and drag myself out of bed. It's not fair to leave Peeta alone in trying to get her out the door for school. Iris can be quite distracted and diffuse in the mornings, to the point that it takes a strong, combined effort to herd her out the door. As usual, with her, it's not her intent. Iris is obliviously difficult. She jumps into everything with gleeful abandon, leaving Peeta and me to scramble after her. She does tend to pay more attention to whether Peeta and I are exasperated with her lately, though. Her narrow escape those few weeks ago has, if anything, taught her to be a little more perceptive. She's not calmed down, really. She just pays a little more attention to the rules and has gotten better at reading situations. Namely, whether she can continue to pester me, or if it's time to stop lest she get in real trouble.

Peeta picks up on my mood before I've even rounded the corner into the kitchen.

"Katniss? What's wrong?"

"Can you ask Iris how she still manages to upset my stomach nearly five years after I finally got her out of me?"

"What?"

"Nothing," I growl. Peeta quietly puts breakfast in front of me. Even Iris, who has a penchant for obliviousness, eyes me cautiously.

"Mama, are you sick?"

"No, little duck. Just tired," I sigh, trying to cushion my tone and calm down a little. She doesn't understand that I'll be feeling abnormal at best for more than half a year. Iris, bouncing back quickly as always, happily continues wolfing down her breakfast. We see her off to school, the only positive side of my foul mood being that it tempers my usual anxiety. Not Peeta's, though. I'd forgotten how anxious he was when I was carrying Iris. Sure enough, he's just as concerned now.

"Katniss, are you sure you should be climbing on the roof?"

"No. But are you really going to try and stop me?" I growl.

"I suppose not."

"Good answer."

Peeta sighs, defeated.

I watch Iris bounce alongside her friends, Hazel keeping a sharp eye on all of them. Poor Hazel seems about as traumatized as I am after the girls' disappearance. She's just short of militant with them lately, herding them around like a disgruntled mother cat trying to keep track of a little gaggle of mischievous kittens. I snort, shaking my head. I know the feeling all too well.

"We really should give Hazel a medal or something," I mutter.

"For dealing with Iris? Probably. Or a cake. That I could do."

"It might be nice. Well, looks like she's there safe," I sigh, dropping down next to Peeta. He starts a little. Always does. He never hears me coming. Not even after almost twenty years. I grin to myself a little, idly reveling in the fact that I'm still just as stealthy at nearly forty as I was at sixteen. And pregnant to boot. Peeta wordlessly hands me my game bag. He usually brings it out with him in the mornings, aware that I'll be running off to the woods immediately.

"Be careful. Try to take it easy."

"I'll try."

"Which means you're going to do everything as you normally do and then get mad when you're really tired afterwards."

"You got it."

Peeta just chuckles, half-exasperated and half-loving. He smiles and leans up to kiss me before I can run off. I return it with my usual muted smile, and then I'm moving at the same brisk jog as always, albeit slower than normal.

"You're killing me, kid," I huff at my belly, like I used to do with Iris. "But I'm not puking, so I guess I should give you credit for that."

I quiet for a while, keeping to the trees. I find a whole little burrow of rabbits. I sneak along, sometimes low to the ground, sometimes picking game off from above, hanging low in tree branches. Despite the fatigue, I swear that I am quieter than usual. I slip silently through the close-knit branches of my woods. And like Haymitch told me when I was pregnant with Iris, even my aim is more accurate. My game bag is full quicker than normal.

"Guess there are some pluses to you having to be in there so long," I tell my stomach. "You're a lot less violent than your big sister so far, I'll give you that."

As with Iris, the woods are where I'm comfortable talking to this new child, whose presence blindsided me so. I know it's far too small to even be able to recognize my voice yet, but I talk all the same.

"You see, your sister is a...handful. She's a wild one. Probably my fault. But she's sweet, like your daddy. I'm thinking you might be quieter. Of course, you could be just as much of a little whirlwind as her. If so, you're in good company, kid."

I laugh to myself, picturing Iris's little blue eyes, alight as always with a wealth of schemes and ideas and plots to drive me and Peeta to distraction. I find myself wondering what this child is like, what I'll picture five or so years ahead when I think of him or her. Sparking little blue eyes, just like Iris's? Or quieter, muted ones like Prim's were? A more foreign feeling comes over me, one that I didn't experience the same with Iris. I want to meet this child. I suppose it's because I've been through a pregnancy already now. I know what it's like for the strange little bubbly feeling in my belly, the kicking, nudging little bump on my stomach to become a living, breathing human with a personality and a will all its own. Last time, I was just terrified about the fact that there was a child there at all. This time, I want to know who this child is. I keep talking, speculating out loud, all the while all-too aware that none of my speculation will probably come true.

"You seem pretty quiet. Or, you're helping me be quieter. Maybe you're a hunter like me," I chuckle. "Because I'm not so sure about your sister."

The words flow without my being able to stop them. There is no hesitation. After the initial shock, there is no disbelief, no wariness with this child. Not now, at least. I do not know whether it's because I've been through a pregnancy already, or if it's this child. All I know is that, today, all is calm and blessedly quiet.

Peeta grins at me when I walk in.

"You look like you feel better."

"A little, yes."

"But not normal?"

"Peeta, from what I can tell, no woman ever feels normal when she's pregnant. No one. Ever. And I especially hate being pregnant."

"But you're so cu-"

"Peeta, you know how sometimes I tell you not to finish sentences?"

"Yes."

"This is another one of those times."

"Oh. Okay. I'm sorry you still feel bad."

"It's alright. It's really not that bad. So far this one is calmer."

"I hope it stays that way," Peeta grimaces, obviously remembering my rocky pregnancy with Iris.

"Try not to fuss over me too hard, even if it doesn't."

"Katniss, you know when you ask me why I've even bothered to try and tell you not to do something?"

I smile. "Yes.

"This is one of those times," he grins.

"Understood," I sigh, marveling at how Peeta has worried about me nearly all his life. I should indeed know better than to think he'll stop now.

Our day proceeds in relative calm. It is, of course, shattered as soon as Iris comes bouncing home, babbling about her day. Peeta smiles widely, listening with rapt attention as usual. As much as I joke with Peeta about her wild enthusiasm, it never fails to make me smile all the same. I chuckle, cleaning game in my quiet corner of the kitchen, as Peeta says, hushed and serious, "Iris, come here. I need your help with something. It's very important."

Iris is absorbed immediately.

"Really? What is it?"

"First, I have to ask. Do you know any of Hazel's favorite foods?"

Iris scowls and cocks her head, suspicious already.

"Daddy, why do you need to know that?"

"It's part of the mission."

"Mission? Like a secret mission?"

"Yes."

"Daddy, you bake cakes. You don't go on missions."

I huddle over my skinning knife, trying to hold in the chortling laugh that threatens to escape.

"How do you know?"

"Because Mama would be the one on the mission."

I cannot help the cackle that erupts from me. Peeta pouts at me, pride bruised mildly.

"Smart girl," I mutter and he pouts further before continuing.

"Hey, I've been on some missions with your mama," I glare pointedly at him. He's skirting a little too close to things I don't want to have to explain for a few more years. He shrinks, heeding my warning, before continuing.

"Do you know the answer or not?"

Iris rolls her eyes like I do often before answering.

"Hazel likes groosling, and pecans, and apples."

"Okay, that helps. Second question."

Peeta pauses dramatically. Iris, despite her suspicion, is obviously still engrossed.

"Can you..."

"Daddy, just tell me!"

"Just tell her, Peeta. She's inherited my patience." Peeta nods. It's well known that I have little to no patience.

"Help me bake a cake?"

"Really?!"

"Of course."

"Yeah!" Iris squeals, elated. If Peeta is baking, Iris is always underfoot, terribly curious as to what he's doing. He always lets her help when she expresses interest, which is almost constantly. But this is the first time he's expressly asked her for help.

"What are you going to put in it?"

"I was thinking pecans and apples and a little bit of cinnamon. How does that sound to you?"

"Really good! But who's it for?"

"I was thinking we could give it to Hazel."

"Oh. Good idea! But why?"

"Well, she looks after you a lot, right?"

"Yeah. Every day when I walk to school and when I walk back home."

"Right. So I figured we should make her cake to say thank you. Do you think that's a good idea?"

"Yes! It's a great idea!"

"Glad you think so. We should get started then."

I listen to Peeta quietly walk her through the steps of basic baking.

"Right, so we're going to put flour in there. Yes, like that. And watch. I'm going to crack this egg, and then I'll let you do the next one."

Iris makes a bit of a mess of the egg that's handed to her, but Peeta cleans it up quickly and deftly. He lets her spill half a jar of cinnamon on the table, add too much sugar, crack a beloved measuring cup of his, all the while smiling, his blue eyes never leaving her. He pops the cake in the oven quickly, before she can insist that he let her do it, opting to keep her away from the oven for a few more years. Iris talks nonstop, as usual, while the cake bakes, asking question after question.

"Daddy, have you always been a baker?"

"For the most part, yeah."

"How long have you been one?"

"A long time. Since I was just a little older than you."

"What? Really? You baked when you were little?"

"Yeah. I had to help my daddy with it. He was a baker, too."

"You had to? What do you mean?"

Peeta looks warily to me, asking if he should explain. I nod slowly. While I'm not prepared to start telling Iris about the war and the Games, I know that we can't hid everything from her. She might as well start learning, gradually, that her parents' childhood wasn't as comfortable as hers.

"Well, back when your Mama and I were little, things were different."

"How?"

"I'm getting there, slow down," Peeta laughs. "We didn't have a lot then. And a lot of times, children had to help their parents in whatever they did to try and keep the family fed."

Iris thinks, eyes cast down.

"So...you were..poor?"

I flinch. I don't know where Iris learned the word, or how she knows what it means. But I can tell that she understands by the solemn look on her round face. I grit my teeth, trying not to betray how difficult it is already, trying to ease her into the world we grew up in.

"Yeah, sweetheart. Everyone was."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone in 12."

Iris looks at the table. I thank my lucky stars that she hasn't asked "why?" to that last statement.

"Mama too?"

Peeta's face falls a little. I know what he's thinking. If Peeta was poor, then our family was destitute. How can we explain? That her daddy's family wasn't as poor as mine, but we were all starving just the same? I can barely hold her little blue gaze.

"Yeah. Mama too."

"Did you hunt then, too, Mama?"

"Yeah. Though, I wasn't quite as young as your Daddy was when he started baking."

"Did your Mama hunt, too?"

I laugh a bit, imagining my shrinking violet of a mother traipsing through the woods, jumping every few seconds, startled into hysterics by everything.

"No. It was my father who was the hunter. He hunted when he could. He worked in some mines that used to be around here. But he hunted to feed us, and he taught me to. When he died, I started hunting myself. It kept my family alive."

"Your daddy died?" Iris asks, incredulous, dropping the spoon she's been toying with, blue eyes round, surprised, and impossibly sad.

"Yeah," I tell her, quietly. "When I was eleven. My little sister was seven."

Iris just stares at me with those piercing little eyes. After a moment she ducks under the table, making a beeline for me, and takes a flying leap into my lap. Thank goodness I have the presence of mind and the reflexes enough to discard my knife before she lands, hard, little arms vice-like around my neck. I hear a little sniffle, the same short, quiet one that Peeta makes when he's gotten emotional.

"Hey, now, don't cry," I venture gently in an effort to calm her down a little.

"But it's sad," she protests. "You-"

Iris doesn't seem to know what she's trying to express. She falters for a moment before burying her face in my neck.

"Yeah, it's sad. But I'm okay, little duck. It's okay."

Iris nods against me before looking up at me with a hardness in her eyes that I've not seen there before. I have only ever seen it in my own before now.

"Mama."

"Yeah, little duck?" I ask her, focusing hard on her, wondering what in the world has suddenly put such steel in my happily oblivious daughter's eyes.

"Will you teach me?"

"What?"

"I want to know how to hunt. Like you do."

I can do nothing but stare for a minute. Iris loves being outside with me, but she's never shown any sort of interest in what I do. Nothing beyond helping me name plants.

"I want to learn," she scowls a little, determined and bull-headed. I suddenly realize why she's so adamant. Even in trying to introduce her gradually to the world I grew up in, I've already scared her. She knows my father died. She knows that my family was very poor. She knows that the only reason we kept going is because I learned how to hunt from my father. She's learned that parents aren't invincible. She's learned that something could happen to us. And she's trying to brace herself for it, just in case. If something happens to me, or Peeta, or both of us, she wants to know how to take care of herself. I cannot decide whether I'm proud of her or whether I'm horrified that she's only four and already she feels that she has to know how to take care of herself without us, just in case the unthinkable happens.

"Okay," I finally manage to choke out.

I look over her head across the room to Peeta, who has his eyes shut tightly. He's fighting a relapse. It happens often when emotions are running high. But he manages to keep himself going and, after a minute, he opens his eyes to stare back at me, his sad, blue eyes a mirror image of Iris's. Part of it is shared grief with Iris. But I know what the rest of it is. It is the same feeling that I have. How is our daughter, who worries about us so, going to handle knowing the full truth about us? And if she's this curious and perceptive already, how long will it be before we're forced to start telling her the things that no child should be exposed to? I know, as I look at Peeta standing firm and quiet and melancholy, that it will not be long. I pet her tiny braid, smaller and shorter than mine, but just as dark, and breathe through the tears that threaten to spill over.

And so, I begin teaching Iris everything that my father taught me. I start first with simple traps. She wants to learn how to shoot, but if something were to happen to us tomorrow, she'd be able to do a lot more with a few traps than a bow. She's only four and, while I'll teach her the basics of shooting, it'll take her years to gain the kind of accuracy I have. I was at least fourteen before I started hitting my mark more often than not.

"Okay, you see this line here? The one we hid in the grass?"

"Yes. What's it do?"

"I'm going to tell you, little duck, hold on," I chuckle lightly. "You know how we always find a lot of rabbits in these?"

"Yeah!"

"Well, we put this line where we think a lot of rabbits will walk. See the prints?"

Iris leans over and stares, hard, at the ground before giving me one resolute nod.

"Good. Well, when the rabbit hits the line stretched across here,," I gesture to the loop of line, "their head gets stuck in the loop. And when they try to get out-" I nudge one of sticks I've propped up and the snare snaps back.

"Gotcha!" Iris exclaims.

"You got it. Now you try. Set it up like I showed you. And remember, you want to try to make it so the animals can't see it."

Iris gets to work. It takes her a few minutes to remember how the mechanism works, but soon, her tiny fingers get the twitch-up snare set up correctly. She covers the tiny wire noose with brush. It's a little clumsy, but it'll work. In time, she'll be quite good at it.

"What about squirrels?"

"Well, usually I shoot those. But I have one trap for squirrels. Come on, let's go look at it."

"It's that way, right?" she peeps, pointing to our left.

"Yeah, you know where it is," I smile a little.

We pick our way through the short stretch of woods towards the lone squirrel trap I have. It's one that's still here from the traps that Gale and I used to check when we were young. He made it, of course. I feel myself tense up a little every time I come over this way, ire climbing up my throat. But it's still one of my best traps and it would be foolish from a hunter's standpoint not to keep it around. I lead Iris to the well-concealed trap that consists of multiple wire loops spaced across a heavy tree limb. The limb has obviously fallen off a nearby tree, but Gale placed it at an angle against the intact tree.

"Your squirrel trap!" Iris exclaims.

"Yeah. You know how it works?"

Iris shakes her head no.

"Okay, you know how when we come by here, there are usually lots of squirrels hanging here?"

"Yeah."

"Well, we put the wire loops all up the branch here. You have to put them so a squirrel has to go through one if they walk up the branch. Squirrels are curious. If you do it right, you're sure to catch a lot of them this way."

"Can I try?"

"Yeah. First you have to get the squirrel we caught off of it."

Iris detangles the dead squirrel from the wire. It dangles from her first by the tail, just like she held them before she was even two. I chuckle a little.

"Okay, give me that, and you put the loop back. Just coil it around the limb. Like that, yeah."

"Mama, when can I start learning to shoot like you?" Iris asks as she sets up the snare again.

"Soon, little duck," I chuckle. Iris asks me this every day. I'm only putting her off because I've been trying to make a small bow for her. She's too young to train with mine, so I've been idly looking for a piece of wood small enough, flexible enough, and resilient enough. As soon as I can find it, I'll start teaching her. After showing her the squirrel trap, I take Iris with me back towards town. Now, she walks beside me, her tiny, pudgy hand clenched around mine. Sometimes I carry her around some of the parts of the woods that are too much for her small legs to handle. But for the most part, she manages without my help. Iris is enthusiastic, as usual, happy to be included in my errands once again. Though, her presence reminds me that soon I'll be poked and prodded again about my pregnancy. Just as soon as I start getting round enough for people to notice. I sigh to myself. If I was annoyed before at everyone's reaction to Iris, the coming months will be close to unbearable. People will not believe that Peeta actually convinced me to go through with this a second time. Not that either of us had much of a choice in the matter, but that's beside the point.

And I find myself fervently hoping that my second child will be a little calmer and a lot more tactful than my first as soon as she opens her mouth at Sage's.

"Miss Sage, you're fatter than last time."

I swat her immediately. She shrinks, giving me the cowed look she gets when she knows she's in trouble.

"Iris, we'll talk about this later. I can't take her anywhere, can I?" I ask Sage. Sage, to her credit, is laughing raucously. I'm not sure whether she's laughing at Iris's candor or the fact that I have to attempt keeping her in line.

"You've got some things to explain to her still," Sage tells me, still laughing.

"I'm getting to it!" I snap back. "You try explaining anything to her. All it takes is one sentence before she starts with the questions, and each question has two follow-up questions, and those questions have questions. Explaining things to Iris is a long process," I huff.

"You ate too much cake, didn't you?" Iris asks gravely and knowingly.

"Iris?"

"Yes, Mama?"

"Check with me before you talk."

"Here, I'll help you with half of your impending explanation. To answer your question, Iris, no, I didn't get this fat from eating cake. Most of it isn't even fat at all. I'm going to have a baby. That's why I look so big," Sage explains, business-like as ever. Iris frowns lightly, considering this information.

"So...the baby is in there?" she asks, pointing to Sage's distended belly, eyes widening like they always do when she's curious.

"Yeah, that's right. Babies have to stay in their mama's bellies for a bit before they're born-"

"Why? And how long do they have to be in there?"

"See what I'm talking about?" I ask as Iris starts throwing questions at Sage. "And I've told you some of this before, Iris." Iris keeps volleying questions, unheeded. Sage patiently answers them, trying to simplify things a little. But Sage is a doctor and I can tell she has no intention of placating Iris with any sort of childish story or misinformation. Sage explains things to my wide-eyed child as if she were teaching her straight from a medical textbook. She just limits the jargon a little.

"Babies are too small and too weak to survive on their own right away. So they stay in their mama's bellies for a while before they're born. A lot of important things develop then. All of the baby's bones, their organs, skin, eyes, nose, mouth. Everything down to the fingers and toes," Sage explains, tweaking Iris's tiny fingers. Iris giggles at her.

"And even after all of that is done, they have to stay in for just a little while longer to build up enough strength that they can survive outside of their mama. It all takes about nine months. That's forty two weeks."

"That's a long time!"

"Yeah, it is. But not too long. Some animals take a lot less time. Like, a cat is only three months. People take a little longer because people are bigger and more complex. But a horse takes eleven months, because they're even bigger than us."

Iris listens with bright eyes and rapt attention, punctuating Sage's lesson with questions.

"So in that many months, there'll be a baby?"

"Well, it's already been six months for me, so I only have three left. And then yes, the baby will come out. But the baby's already in there. That's what's making my belly so round. The baby's all curled up in there and there's not enough room in there for it, so it sticks out a little," Sage chuckles.

"Can I touch it?" Iris asks, staring hard at Sage's belly.

"Sure, come here. I think it's moving around, too."

Iris puts her pudgy hand flat on Sage's belly, still staring, fascinated.

"It's moving!" she squeals, giggling.

"Hasn't stopped since this morning," Sage sighs, obviously trying to grin and bear it, but exhausted all the same.

"My condolences," I mutter, bitterly remembering Iris's dancing when I was carrying her.

"So every baby is like this first," Iris half-asks, half-states.

"Yep," Sage confirms.

"I was too?" Iris looks from Sage to me.

"No, you were special and fell from the sky," I tell her, dead straight. She frowns at me, obviously unsure whether to believe me.

"Your Mama's teasing you, Iris. She doesn't always know when not to do that," Sage shoots a reprimand at me, smirking. I roll my eyes at her before addressing my skeptical daughter.

"Sorry, little duck. I was teasing you. You were in my belly at one point, too. Remember how I told you you used to kick all the time unless I sang to you?"

"Oh yeah," Iris says slowly.

"See? I did try to explain. A little. She's just never seen a pregnant woman before this, so I don't think she quite put two-and-two together."

"Well, hopefully she has now. And hopefully that'll save you some stress later."

"It will," I sigh. "Thank you."

Sage shrugs. "It's what I do best. Medical training."

"Come on, Iris. Let's go home before you blurt something else."

"Okay!" Iris answers, still oblivious to the fact that she's been blurting things that aren't quite appropriate for polite conversation.

I am relieved that Sage has done half of my explaining for me. That is, until she grins wickedly and calls after us, "Hey, Iris, ask your mother how the baby gets there and how it comes out!"

Iris, innocently enthusiastic, pipes, "Yeah! Mama, how does the baby get there?"

I cover Iris's eyes and flash a rude gesture at Sage, who cackles back at me.

"Older," I croak at my daughter, who is still bouncing alongside me with her eyes covered. "I'll tell you when you're older."

Despite her sabotage, Sage has done me a huge favor. There'll be a lot less explaining for me to do when I finally get around to telling Iris that she's going to be a big sister. I do wonder, as I watch her traipse about next to me, what kind of sister she'll be and how she'll react to the news. Iris tends to get excited about anything and everything new, so I suspect she'll be excited. But what if she's not? Or what if she's excited to begin with, but then gets jealous for attention once this baby is born? Iris does so love attention, and if this child is anything like she was as an infant, it'll take almost all of my time. What sort of sister will she be? Like me? I was so close to my sister it hurt. Or like Peeta, who loved his brothers of course, but who was a little more distant towards his siblings? And I wonder how they'll get along. Will this child be just as manic as Iris and help cause havoc with her? Will this child be just as manic, but butt heads with her? Will it be quieter and be a little cowed by her? I sigh, trying to halt the barrage of questions in my mind. I will have to be patient and see how things turn out.

I do need to break the news to Iris soon. Although, I am trying to wait until I'm certain that there will be no issues with this pregnancy. I figure it'll be about time to tell her around when Sage has her baby. But I keep thinking as I get closer to the Victor's Village, wondering about Sage. She's the only doctor in town. I know she can monitor her own health to a certain extent. But who is going to deliver her baby? I know what labor is like. She can't do it by herself. I am fervently hoping, as I walk into our house with Iris's hand in mine, that she won't try. She could, ostensibly, do it. But it would be gruelingly difficult. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. And if anything went wrong, who would be there to help her?

Peeta, as usual, can tell that I'm distracted as I walk in. He greets Iris with the same enthusiasm that she greets him with, and listens to her tell him about her lesson on snares. But when she's finally occupied with a small baking project he's given her, he slips over to me. He kisses me softly on the cheek and I lean into it, gratefully. After a tiring day, Peeta is always a calming presence. Peeta is warmth and light and home.

"Are you alright? Is something bothering you?"

I nod wordlessly.

"What is Sage going to do?"

"About what?"

"Peeta, she's the only doctor in town. There's not even anyone here anymore like my mother. No midwives or apothecaries or anything. She's it. But she's got to have someone to help her deliver her baby. It's only three months away. Maybe not even that. You know Iris came early."

"Goodness. I didn't think about that. Should we ask her? Maybe she hasn't thought about it. I know she's an adult and she's perfectly capable, but she's still a lot younger than us. I worry about her."

"Peeta, you worry about everyone. But maybe we should ask. Because I wouldn't put it past her to try and just do everything by herself. You know what she's like."

"Yes, I do. She's a lot more like you than I think you'd like to admit," Peeta smiles fondly.

"I didn't try to go through labor by myself."

"No. Instead you threatened everyone who was in the room with you with bodily harm," Peeta giggles.

I growl to myself. I don't bother giving Peeta any sort of response.

"Ask her tomorrow," he continues. "And tell me what she says. She's young and she's alone. I want to make sure she's safe."

I chuckle to myself quietly. Peeta tilts his head questioningly.

"When did we become parents?"

"What? When Iris was born..." he trails off, confused.

"No. I mean, when did we start doing the things that our parents did? I remember my mother worrying about anyone who was ten or more years younger than she was. We're doing the same thing. Right now. Sage is an adult and we're worrying after her like...parents."

"You've always been like that, Katniss. But I don't suppose actually being parents helps it at all."

I snort at him. But I can't stop myself from deciding then and there that I'm going to look after Sage as best I can.

The next day, I rap three times on Sage's door. She looks through whatever I've brought in, as usual. It takes me a moment, but eventually I'm able to stammer my question.

"Sage. I don't mean to pry, but, what are you going to do when that baby comes? You're the only doctor here. Who's going to help you? Have you made arrangements for everything?"

"Peeta told you to ask me that, didn't he?"

I grit my teeth.

"Yes. Of course he did. But I want to know, too. I'm not completely heartless," I huff.

Sage gives me one, nonchalant wave.

"Oh yes, I thought about it. I was going to try to handle it on my own. But, if there's any sort of problem, I can't do much about it. There's only so far I can get by myself. I called home to the big hospital in District 6, where I trained and everything, trying to find someone willing to come here for a couple of months. Just enough to help me and help supplement some of the hours I won't be able to work right after the baby is born. Of course, finding someone willing to come all the way out here was difficult. Apparently they had to search outside of the District. But they found someone, so I'm taken care of. Tell Peeta not to worry about it. And I suppose you shouldn't either."

"When are they getting here? And how long are they staying? Babies are a handful. You might want them to stay for a bit."

"I'll manage whenever she decides to leave. She's getting here next month. How long she stays after that is up to her. I doubt she'll be here more than two months."

"Okay," I acquiesce, skeptical still. "As long you're taken care of. And as long as she's competent."

"Oh she is. I'll be just fine." Sage nods once, capable and a little dismissive, as always, and I turn to go. She catches me before I've gotten too far.

"Katniss?"

"Yes?"

"Tell Peeta to put in an order from me of those damn chocolate cupcakes he makes."

I smile quietly, remembering how grateful I was for Peeta's baking when I carried Iris. I'm sure I'll be craving it again soon. I can already see myself rounding out along my lower stomach.

"I'll tell him to get them to you as soon as possible."

"Thank you," she laughs and I smirk back as I leave.

Without fail, by the time the next week comes around, my hunting trousers are getting tighter by the day. I'm not round enough for anyone to pick up on it yet, but I know it won't be long before I get there. And I'm already feeling a ghost of the immense appetite I picked up with Iris. Some of my more perceptive customers seem to notice that something is amiss. I think Greasy Sae has already picked up on things. She gives me a knowing grin every day this week. It must be the slight roundness in my face. By the time two more weeks have passed, I'm about to graduate to wearing Peeta's shirts again. Although, I am still small enough to be able to move normally. Poor Sage looks as if someone has stuffed a beach ball under her shirt. She looks as tired as I know I did that late in my first pregnancy. I can only hope that this child doesn't tire me out the way Iris did. I ask Sage once more when the second doctor is coming. I'm not sure that Sage has much longer to go and I'm nervous about what will happen if she goes into labor before they can get here.

"Oh, she's supposed to get here tomorrow. She'll probably be staying in one of those vacant houses up in the Victor's Village, actually. That's what I think she told me, anyway. You'll see her around."

I sigh quietly, relieved that Sage is taken care of.

I assume that it's the new doctor introducing themselves when we hear a knock at the door the next afternoon. Iris darts to answer it, and we let her. She loves answering the door, especially when we get so few visitors.

"Who are you?" she asks bluntly and curiously. Peeta giggles. Iris doesn't mince words.

"How do you know my mama's name?" I hear her ask from the doorway. I stiffen a little at that. I don't want to have to explain to Iris why a complete stranger knows my name. Peeta and I wordlessly agree to go help Iris with our visitor.

"You know my name, too?" she asks. Peeta and look at each other, a bit alarmed. It's not until I'm halfway to the door and I look up that I realize that it's no stranger at the door. It's my mother.

_**Hope you all enjoyed! And, as always, do pop by and leave your thoughts about the chapter in a review! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	16. Chapter 16

_**Hi all! Sorry I left again. As for why, it's not a great excuse, but it's there. I was working my butt off making three different costumes for Dragon Con in those weeks. (I cosplay as well as write fic and stuff, haha). In case anyone wanted to know, armor is a time-consuming, stressful thing to make. And if anyone was at Dragon Con, maybe I saw one of you and didn't know it! I was Sailor Jupiter on Friday, grownup, Chief of Police Toph Bei Fong on Saturday, and of course, Katniss on Sunday. So maybe you saw me or I saw you if you were there! And if anyone is going to be at Anime Weekend Atlanta this weekend, I'll be there too, as Toph. So if you're there, you can chastise me in person for taking so long. ;) Anyway,**_ _**by the time Dragon Con was over, school had started and all. I haven't abandoned the story and plan to continue with it as I have been! I just don't have as much free time to write and update as I once did. I'm still working steadily at it. Updates just might be more seldom for now. Don't despair, I'm not going anywhere. So, I'll shut up now and let ya'll read Chapter 16! Enjoy!**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, please don't sue me.**_

"Mom?!" I choke, reeling. Peeta looks as shocked as I am, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

My mother is standing in the doorway, looking tearfully down at Iris. Iris, in turn, is pouting confusedly at her.

"Mom, what are you doing here?!" I stutter. I never thought my mother would set foot back in District 12. I would've been shocked even if she had told me she was coming here. But to find her suddenly at my front door, with no prior warning, is unthinkable.

"We got a call from that huge hospital in District 6. They had to find someone who would come out here to help the doctor out here. What was her name? Anyhow, they couldn't get anyone to agree to come out here. I couldn't very well say no. Not when I know the District so well and I don't have any family ties to District 4. My family ties are here," she smiles thinly. She already looks a little more wan being here than she did when I saw her in District 4 almost five years ago.

I just stare open-mouthed at her for a moment. I can't say much of anything. For once, Peeta is also at a loss for words. My mother squirms uncomfortably under the silence.

"I'm sorry. I just know that a lot of the others have families. And I thought it might be nice to see you. I can stay in one of the empty houses-" she gestures out towards the green in the Victor's Village. My brain finally jerks into motion again and I shake my head.

"No, mom, I'm not going to make you stay by yourself in an empty house. We have more than enough room in here. I just didn't expect you...here."

Peeta also comes to his senses.

"Here, let me get that," he gently takes the large bag my mother is carrying out of her hands.

I am reeling seeing my mother in my house for the first time since I was seventeen. It was one thing to see her in District 4. But to have her here brings memories roaring back to me. It's bad enough that I nearly expect Prim to pad, barefoot and quiet, out of my living room. I shake my head to try and clear it. I'm brought back to earth sharply, as usual, by Iris, the only person who could drag me out of this near-flashback.

"Mama, who is this and why is she staying in our house?" Iris plants her hands on her hips and scowls at me. She's peeved that I haven't immediately informed her of what's going on.

"Iris, this is your grandmother. This is my mama," I explain, watching her digest the information.

"It's nice to meet you, Iris. I met you when you were a baby, but you were much too young to remember that," my mother explains in her customary timid, quiet manner.

"Hi!" Iris exclaims, all semblance of suspicion disappearing. "I didn't know I had a grandma!" she exclaims happily.

"I told you you had one, Iris," Peeta giggles.

"But I didn't ever see her before today!"

My mother smiles widely, still staring in slight disbelief at Iris.

"She looks so much like you," she tells me, torn between staring at Iris and staring at me, trying to take us both in. She finally settles on Iris, who is staring back excitedly. My mother, of course, has seen Iris before. But, of course, her features are so much more prominent now that she's older. "But she has your eyes, Peeta. And your nose."

Iris starts her excited prattling and Peeta sighs. We know she will not stop for a few hours at least. But my mother, who has never had to weather a night of Iris's boundless energy, keeps grinning, listening with rapt attention.

"Come on, mom, let's put you in one of the rooms upstairs," I tell her. I huff up the stairs, drained already. The same quiet, subtle exhaustion that's been happening for the last few months.

"Pick whichever room you want. You remember them. The only ones that are full are the two at the end of the hall."

My mother veers into the one that Prim used to sleep in, because Iris is in the one she used to use, and I swallow, hard. I haven't opened the door to that room in almost twenty years. The only reason there's not a film of dust on every surface in the room is because Peeta slips in to dust in here every so often, when I'm not looking. I am trying to keep a straight face in front of Iris, but I am not coping well. My mother, whom I have a rocky relationship with at best, has shown up unannounced and sent a flood of painful memories my way in one fell swoop. I feel a gentle warmth in my hand. Peeta's hand is clutching mine. He knows. He always knows. I keep hold of it with every bit of strength I've got. Iris is following my mother around like a little duckling. She usually does with new people. She's still as unfailingly curious as ever, and she'll shadow anyone new who comes through the door.

"Mom, it's fine that you're here, but why didn't you call us and tell us you were coming?" I venture. There must be some reason. My mother is timid, but she's not ditzy or forgetful.

"Oh, well, I meant to of course, but things just got busy back in four. I forgot to and next thing I knew I was on the train here. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to just drop in."

Peeta seems to accept the explanation.

"It's alright," he smiles that gentle bright smile of his. "We have plenty of room. It's not a problem."

I don't say anything. I just scowl lightly. I am suspicious. My mother doesn't forget things easily. If anything, she has an abnormally sharp memory. There is something she's not telling me. For some reason she just dropped in and offered to stay elsewhere immediately. I decide not to ask right now, though. She seems a little cowed by our initial reaction to her arrival and I don't want to cause a disturbance in front of Iris. Iris just met her grandmother for the first time and I don't want to taint the interaction. Peeta nudges me and raises his blond eyebrows at me. He's wordlessly asking why I'm scowling in my mother's direction immediately after her arrival when I haven't seen her in five years. I consciously smooth my expression and shake my head imperceptibly at him. I'll tell him later. He nods just as subtly and seamlessly eases the tension in the room.

"Mrs. Everdeen, have you met our doctor yet?" he smiles. Even after all this time, Peeta always knows exactly what to say in any given situation. He can mold the mood in a room to fit whatever he wants. My mother visibly relaxes and smiles.

"No, I haven't. You know her?"

"Almost no one lives here, so we know almost everyone," he shrugs, smiling still.

"Oh, I forgot. Four is so much larger than here. I forget sometimes, how everyone knew each other."

"Do you want to meet her? Katniss has to go see her this week anyway. She could take you."

I huff a little at Peeta. If he had it his way, I'd be forced to undergo a checkup with Sage every week of this pregnancy. He obsesses over my health and general well being. Peeta really does not cope well with having a child and me rolled into one. He didn't before this and he doesn't now. It's overload for him. He shrugs sheepishly at me.

"Yes, I'd love to. I'd like to take a look at her, too. She's been monitoring her own health this whole time, hasn't she? And she's quite pregnant by now."

"She's enormous. I'm surprised she hasn't popped," I snort.

"Well, why don't we go see her now? If you think she's free and if that's alright," my mother ventures tentatively.

"Sure," I shrug. "Iris, stay here with Daddy."

"Why?"

"Because your grandmother and I are going to check up on Sage."

"Are you coming back?" she asks my mother, interested. She wants my mother to stay so she can get to know her. Or terrorize her. One of the two. My mother looks at me quickly and warily before telling Iris yes. Iris grins and dashes off in Peeta's direction.

"Daddy, can we paint?" she asks, eyes alight, having already forgotten us. Painting with Peeta is probably her favorite thing to do. I've walked into the house more times than I can count to see them silently dabbing away at canvas with a palette of paint between them. Iris usually mucks up the palette a little, but Peeta diligently works around it. He's always sitting in front of his easel, and she's always happily sprawled out on the drop cloth on the floor. She even has her own side of the wall in his studio for her messy, blobby, colorful paintings.

"I suppose we can," Peeta nods, trying not to smile quite as widely as he wants to, teasing her. But Peeta loves painting with her as much as she does with him. I trudge out the door with my mother in tow, leaving Iris and Peeta already cheerfully absorbed. We don't speak much on the walk down. I'm not entirely sure what to say. My mother doesn't appear to know either. It's been five years, and last time, Annie and Killian were around to occupy us. That and my mother was so focused on tiny Iris then, and I was relieved to have a few days where every minute of my time wasn't devoted to a needy, squalling infant, that we didn't really need to talk much. Now that I think about it, I don't think my mother and I have had a legitimate conversation since the war ended. Although I am quiet by nature, I am especially reserved and grudging around my mother. She only says a tentative few words to me, despite the fact that I have not been outwardly snappish to her as of yet.

"Where does she live? Which way are we going?"

"In town, just a couple of miles. The street where Peeta's family's bakery used to be. They just built some of the newer buildings on the foundations of the old ones. Even though they haven't built much so far. Just enough for the few that live here."

"Has the District really grown at all?"

"Yes. A little. But it'll be a few more generations before it's close to where it was. It's that building just there."

"Oh," my mother gasps a little.

"What?"

"It's right where my parents' apothecary shop was."

"Oh. I didn't know."

My mother's eyes widen as we enter town and I'm not sure if it's because she's never seen buildings in 12 that didn't look mere seconds from falling apart, or if it's because there's so few of them now.

"It's very different here," she murmurs, eyes surprised and troubled.

"Mmhmm. But some things are the same," I tell her as everyone who is out and about nods and says hello to me. 12 is still the close-knit, familiar sort of place it was before. Some of the older inhabitants of 12 recognize my mother after a minute or so. They grin widely and tell her welcoming, kind things. "Hey, I haven't seen you in, what, twenty years?! What are you doing back here?" "Came back to keep that girl in line, huh?" "Every time I see that granddaughter of yours, I think how she's got your eyes." "You're back! I hope you're going to stick around for a while."

My mother shyly smiles back at them, faring about as well with copious amounts of attention as I do. It's one of the only things that the two of us, and Prim, all had in common. None of us ever enjoyed the spotlight. I was just the only one who was ever snappish and sullen about it. When we reach Sage's, I give my customary three sharp raps on the door. She doesn't open the door as promptly as she usually does and, by the time she does get to the door, I can see why. Poor Sage is now, clearly, uncomfortably large. She has a permanent ghost of a grimace on her face. Thankfully, she's a bit taller than me, so she isn't quite as overwhelmed by the bulky roundness of her belly. I sigh, not looking forward to my center of gravity being slowly broken down and destroyed with the weight of a child on my small, wiry frame. But Sage still has that worn, tired look about her that I've only ever seen on myself, in the few weeks just before Iris was born.

"Katniss? Is there a problem?" she asks briskly, but concernedly. She's not as on-edge about this pregnancy as I am, and not even close to Peeta. But after the trouble I had early in my last pregnancy, Sage is cautious with me all the same.

"Yes. I have a bone to pick with you."

"As usual," Sage sniffs. She visibly relaxes, aware that if I'm sniping at her, then nothing is egregiously amiss.

"Why didn't you tell me that the new doctor is my mother?"

Sage's eyebrows rise in surprise. Well, as surprised as she ever is.

"I wasn't aware."

"You didn't figure it out when she has the same last name as I do?"

"It's not my responsibility to notify you if your own mother is coming. That falls on her. She should've told you, not me," Sage shrugs, as unafraid and blunt as always, completely comfortable with throwing out an underhanded dig at the doctor who is going to be taking care of her for the next few weeks. I grimace to myself and wish Peeta were standing here with me to help smooth over this already-rocky introduction. Or at least that Iris were here to draw the attention away from the situation at hand to herself. I sigh.

"Well, this is the new doctor. Mom, this is Sage," I grumble, attempting to retain some semblance of courtesy, which is difficult if both Sage and I are involved.

"Nice to meet you," my mother smiles her soft, slightly timid grin.

"Same to you," Sage nods, polite but unsmiling.

My mother raises her head a bit, and her eyes lose some of their nervousness.

"Well, I'd like to look you over to see how you're doing. I'm sure you've done a fine job by yourself, but I think it's time that you had someone help you take care of yourself."

There it is. The only time my mother has any backbone. I do smile to myself a little. For someone like me, who has a little too much rigidity, watching people find some of their own strength is always nice.

"That would be wonderful," Sage nods once. "Come in. And bring that in with you," she sniffs, pointing to me. I growl.

"I was going to go back hom-" I begin. I do not want to wait and watch while my mother examines Sage. I'm uncomfortable with medical processes even when it's only me involved. Watching it is worse.

"Oh no, you're not. You're staying in here and one of us," Sage gestures between herself and my mother, "is going to look you over. I've got you in here, I'm not letting you escape that easily. And don't even try going back home to tell Peeta that you skipped a checkup. You know he'll send you right back down here."

"He'll _try_," I snort.

"Oh, as if you'd really be mean to him when he's worried about you."

I just look at the floor, defeated.

"I'm not even due for one."

"Doesn't matter. I'm not taking chances with you this time around."

"This time around? What is she taking about, Katniss?"

"You didn't tell her?" Sage pauses briefly, eyeing me disapprovingly.

"Tell me what?"

"Thanks for making me do this now _and_ making me look like a-" I start at Sage before my mother cuts in once more.

"Katniss?"

I sigh.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but it's not been that long and you just got here. I'm pregnant."

My mother's eyes widen absurdly.

"Again?"

"Yes, again," I huff.

"You're sure?"

"What? Yes! I can barely fit into my clothes anymore! Why does everyone always react like that?"

"Well, I never thought you'd have Iris. A second one is a shock."

"Trust me, it was a shock for me, too."

"So, what did Sage mean when she said she wasn't taking chances?"

"The first time around, with Iris,-" I hesitate. "I almost lost her."

"Oh. Oh my god."

"Yeah. But this one has been fine so far, so don't worry about it."

My mother looks at me with both pity and hurt in her eyes. I look at the floor, unable to cope with it. I know she's hurt because I didn't tell her. Didn't tell her about the trouble with Iris, and didn't immediately call her this time when I found out I was pregnant. I barely told her in time that I was pregnant with Iris. She turns away from me quickly and attends to Sage, wordlessly. Now, she is nearly as brisk and business-like as Sage. Sage never reacts strongly to anything, but even so, I can tell she's impressed. It is the only thing I think I've ever been proud of my mother about. She is truly an incredibly skilled doctor.

Then it comes time to examine me, and both my mother and Sage throw themselves into it with gusto. One doctor is bad enough. Having two of them fussing over me is overload. I grit my teeth and try not to snap at anyone. My mother is not as abrasive as Sage about things, although she is quite focused and wouldn't hesitate to tell me off should I protest too much.

"You've taken good care of her," my mother smiles at Sage. "Everything looks perfect. Except the arm, although the cast looks well done. Katniss, how did you break your arm?" my mother scowls, having just noticed my bound-up arm.

"She actually should be able to get that thing off in a week. She can tell you how she broke it."

"Iris got lost in the woods, I had to go get her. She got treed by a pack of coywolves-"

"What? I thought those things had almost died out!"

"Well, there was a pack left. I got all of them, but one got me first. Bit through the bone."

My mother shakes her head grimly. Before we leave, my mother and Sage discuss how Sage will get in contact with us whenever she goes into labor. She doesn't have someone like Peeta to cart her up to us, so they agree that she will call my mother when the time comes and my mother will go to her.

"And now, if that one gets herself into trouble," Sage gestures to me, "You get to deal with her." My mother gives a polite chuckle in response. With a nod, Sage bids us goodbye and we begin the trek back up towards the Victor's Village.

"So does Iris know yet?"

"No. Don't tell her yet, either. I'm trying to make sure everything is...certain before I do. After the trouble I had with her."

"I didn't know about that," she replies quietly and I feel my stomach sink a little. My mother is clearly hurt at my lack of communication with her. I also feel a little flash of anger. She hasn't been a model parent. Far, far from it. Why does she expect me to be forthcoming when she left us to starve when we were children? I have never forgiven her for it and it has tainted the relationship ever since. And now as a mother, I can understand it even less. If something happened to Peeta tomorrow, I would be just as heartbroken as my mother was when my father died, if not more so. Peeta and I have seen too much together not to have the strong link we have. I do not know anymore what one of us would do without the other. But I cannot see myself leaving tiny Iris to fend for herself. If anything, I would be more attentive than usual. She'd need me too much if she lost her daddy. And I know in my very bones that if I died tomorrow, Peeta would do the same. I do not think I am capable of sympathizing with my mother. I cannot understand her. My mother and I continue to walk in our tense silence the rest of the way home.

Peeta helps ease the tension as soon as we walk in. He doesn't really have to say anything. His very presence is a light and calming one, just as it always has been. I find Iris with him, sprawled out on the floor of the studio just like I expect to find her. She excitedly shows my mother her painting, which is a messy depiction of her. My mother grins at her like she used to Prim before my father died. Like she may have at me long ago, when I was that small. Iris does not leave my mother alone, though she doesn't seem to mind. My mother loved children, before, and there is just enough of a ghost of her former self for her to respond to Iris with some measure of enthusiasm. She continues her wary glances at me. I do not think that I look threateningly toward her, although Peeta gives me a surprised and slightly reproachful look a few times, so I must look somewhat hostile. I continue to try and smooth my face and go about my work. Iris soon dozes off in my mother's lap. I drag out the little bow I've just started for her. I am trying to keep it a surprise. I found the little, supple length of wood just yesterday. I'm making it just a bit bigger than it should be for her now, but I want to make sure she'll be able to use it until she's ready to use a full-sized one like mine. I prop the length of wood on the small, but steadily growing, bump on my stomach. One of the only useful things about pregnancy. I can remember using my belly as a work surface last time around with Iris. Peeta used to cringe when I started skinning squirrels with both the animal and my knife propped on my stomach.

"What are you working on?" My mother looks on curiously as I start slowly carving away at what will be Iris's tiny bow.

"It's for her," I gesture at Iris. "She wants to learn to hunt like I do. But she's too small to use my bow, of course."

"You're teaching her to hunt?! She's four!"

I shrug.

"I was out in the woods with Dad that young. Of course, he didn't teach me much about shooting. I had to do that myself. But everything else, I learned then. It's not too early."

My mother eyes me, scowling, highly disapproving.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

I bite back at her, unable to hold it in.

"It was damn lucky that Dad had taught me all that. We would've died without it. So yes, I think it's a good idea. Don't look at me like that when I'm teaching her what to do. If something happens to us, she'll know what to do. Even though neither one of her parents would ever make her take care of herself this young if we could help it."

My mother flinches. Peeta looks on with raised eyebrows.

"Katniss-" he ventures quietly, testing to see if he can calm me down, unsure that a confrontation is necessary. But my mother, in a rare show, goes right over him, with as much fortitude as her wavering voice can muster.

"Excuse me that I'm not perfect like you," she snaps, eyes sharp and defensive.

"I'm not perfect. I just have some semblance of a sense of responsibility that you clearly lack."

My mother finally starts to snap. I've jabbed her one too many times about how she left us to fend for ourselves when we were young.

"Do you have any clue what it was like?!"

"I think I might be able to imagine," I snarl, sarcastic and incensed. "Unless you think two arenas and a warfront isn't enough."

"You didn't have two small children with you to take care of."

"There were plenty of children I had to take care of! I was ready to die to keep Prim out of there. And Rue was in there with me. She may not have been mine, but I _did_ try to take care of her. I tried to get her out of there."

"It's not the same thing, and you know it."

"I don't see how it's different!"

"It's a lot different! What if Peeta died tomorrow?! Some freak accident and here you were with Iris, and pregnant with another one?! What would you do?"

"I would take care of my children," I tell her, quiet and slow and dangerous. "I don't know how you can sit there, and hold her, and smile at her, and ask me why I wouldn't do what you did. I can't look at her and have _any_ clue what went through your mind when Dad died. Because _I_ would die before I ever let her have to work and starve and take care of her little brother or sister with no reliable means to do so. You. Left. Us."

"And nothing I do will ever be enough now, will it!? You've never forgiven me! All I've heard from you since you were eleven, whenever you could be bothered to talk to me, was how I was the worst mother that ever lived. I tried to make up for it after I could move again, and speak again. And you wouldn't have it! You had already taken over and, as far as you were concerned, I might as well have shut my mouth and gotten out of your lives!"

I am now standing, bearing over my mother from across the room. We speak daggers at each other, harsh and sharp, but quiet, trying not to wake Iris who still rests, asleep and innocent, on my mother's lap. Peeta stands, wide-eyed and stock-still behind me. He doesn't want to intervene, but obviously feels that we shouldn't be left alone. I take a quick breath and continue, even quieter. I feel as though, if everything else that we haven't said to each other in almost thirty years is coming out now, I might as well say what I need to now.

"Mom, why are you here? You didn't decide to come here because you wanted to. You hate District 12 and I know you do, so don't try to deny it. Why are you here? Why did you volunteer to come? And why didn't you tell us? Don't lie to me. You didn't forget. _Why are you here and why didn't you tell us?_"

I finally hear the first traces of tears from her since our fight started.

"Because, believe it or not, I love you and you're all I have left!"

I swallow hard. I do not think my mother has outwardly told me that she loves me since before my father died. I am torn. It is indescribable to hear that coming from my mother. But there is also thirty years of animosity working against us. I say nothing. I just wait for my mother to continue, as it's obvious that she has more to say.

"I don't know why you ever thought that I didn't love you. I'm just not like you. I'm not strong like you. You have no idea what you're like, Katniss. It's like you're made of granite or steel or something. Like you're bulletproof. You can stand anything. And other people aren't like that! I can't keep up with you, Katniss! I couldn't stand the same things you do! You _always_ make it, no matter how bad things get, or how hurt you get. You're always still there, still alive, still going. You've always been stronger than me, even when you were little. You'd kill mice around the house for me when your father wasn't there from the time you were four. How am I supposed to compete with that?"

"I'm not asking you to be like me-"

"But you are! Because only someone like you could withstand all that and still function."

I am trying not to let the skepticism show in my expression. Does she not understand that sometimes it takes everything I have left in me to get out of bed? That sometimes it takes Peeta hours, talking me quietly through it so as not to wake Iris, or let her know that something is amiss, to get me on an even enough keel to go about my day? Or that some days, it's Peeta, and nothing seems quite real or tangible to him that day. That all day, I have my hand between his shoulder blades, calmly telling him what's real or not real, fighting off the knowledge, even twenty years later, that it's my fault, that I did this to him. That it has been immeasurably difficult, every day, to make sure as best I can that I don't let all of it hurt Iris. I know I don't succeed completely, but I have trouble understanding why someone wouldn't put everything they have into trying. I keep my mouth shut, willing my mother to continue. She obviously notices the skepticism and the hysterics continue.

"Do you realize that I don't remember those few months you've never left me alone about? Do you remember telling me when I finally started talking again that you had to make me eat and sleep? I don't remember any of it! It was like I went to sleep and when I woke up, one daughter hated me and the other barely trusted me anymore!"

I say nothing to my mother as she gasps, desperate tears on her cheeks. I had no idea before today that she even fully realized that I resent her as much as I do. And I never knew that she had legitimate lapses in memory. I am truly split. I know what it is like not to remember large expanses of time. I can remember, vaguely, sitting by the fire here in this very kitchen, not refusing, but unable to move from the chair my mother currently occupies. I remember being nearly force-fed by Sae. I know what it feels like as I watch her nearly hyperventilate in front of me. But I doubt, had Iris been with me at the time, that I would have succumbed to my catatonia. I even came back to life when Peeta returned, half-mad as he still was then.

"Is that why you didn't tell us you were coming?"

My mother nods miserably.

"I thought you'd tell me not to come. And I wanted to. I wanted to see you. But I know you don't like me. I asked _you_ to visit _me_ last time. I didn't think you'd want me to invite myself. So, I decided if you were angry with me for coming, I could just stay in one of the empty houses up here. Just take care of Sage and leave as soon as I could."

"You should've told us."

"Just one more thing I should've done," she chuckles bitterly.

I pause before continuing. I am not forcing my mother to leave. But I cannot survive her time here if we can't go twenty four hours without an argument like this one. She has not been here a day and we are dredging up the grudge we've had between us for twenty years. I speak quietly to her.

"Mom. I'm not going to make you go stay in an empty house. But this can't keep happening. This can't be another time you swear to me that you're here for me, or that you tried to be, and then you disappear again. This time, if you're really serious about making things better, you're going to have to prove it to me."

My mother nods gravely.

"Okay. I'll try."

"Make sure you do. Because I don't think I can keep doing this. Try, while you're here, to see where I've been coming from for all these years. See what I do and go through every day. I promise if you try, just try, I'll do the same for you."

My mother nods and says nothing further. No one says anything further. Eventually, I scoop Iris out of my mother's lap and carry her upstairs, to her little butter-yellow room. She barely stirs as I change her into her pajamas and tuck her in. I sit with her, alone for a while, thinking. I brush her braid to the side. I wonder two things in this moment. First, I wonder as I look at her, how my mother ever left us the way she did. Because I think about leaving Iris by herself and my entire being revolts at the thought. I imagine her in the place I was in when I was young. I see her tiny form in threadbare, torn, dirty clothing, out in the rain, or the cold, or the blistering heat. Starving, like I was. I can see hollows in her face, purple bruises under her eyes. I feel the compulsion to physically shield her, even now in her quiet room with no immediate threat.

But I also wonder what it would be like if she were angry with me. Not one of her quick temper tantrums. Truly angry. An anger that comes with a grudge, lasting years. A grudge like mine against my mother. I grimace. It would be impossibly painful. I love her with a strength that frightens me, that has frightened me since I first saw her. I don't think I want anything more in this world than to do the right thing by her. And if I knew that I had failed her in that, I couldn't blame her for being angry, even furious with me. I couldn't blame her for hating me a little bit. I couldn't blame her one bit. But it would hurt, sharp like a knife. To see hurt and anger mingle on her face and know it was my fault and that I could've avoided it. To see her curl defensively around her brother or sister, who I don't even know yet, protecting them from me. Like I did Prim from my mother. The thought is a heavy one. I cannot decide whether to take my own side or my mother's. For the first time since I was eleven, I can clearly see them both.

"You've been up here for a while."

I nod wordlessly. Peeta walks slowly and softly to where I am, sitting beside me on Iris's bed. He runs a hand over my braid like I am doing to Iris's.

"What do I do with her, Peeta?" I sigh.

"With Iris or with your mother?" he smiles.

"I guess both," I smile back a little. "But mostly my mother."

"Well I haven't really figured out what to do with Iris and it's been almost five years, so I can't help you there," he jokes, making a reference to Iris's innocently unruly and hyperactive personality. "But with your mother, I think you should do just what you're doing. Let her stay here with us. Let her try to understand you. And I think that that will help you understand _her_. I think you're already starting to, a little bit. Give it time, Katniss. You always want things rectified right away when they need some time. Just be patient."

"Peeta, you have the patience of a saint, so that's easy for you to say. The rest of us, who are normal, have a little trouble keeping up with you." I am not angry or brusque with Peeta. Just tired and a little joking.

"Well, I have trouble keeping up with you, too, so I guess we're even."

"And she got here while I'm pregnant, so I'm at my wit's end anyway."

"Well, that might not be such a bad thing. She could certainly help me take care of you. You are a little bit of a handful, Katniss. Or you were last time."

"Peeta-" I cut my eyes, warning him.

"It wasn't your fault!" Peeta backpedals. "What I'm trying to say is, she might be some help. She is a doctor, after all. And you don't know, it might be nice to have your mother around to take care of you."

I sigh, skeptical. Peeta follows suit.

"Well, your mother went to bed while you were up here. I think we should do the same."

"You can. I'll be up in a minute. I'm hungry."

"Oh, so we've progressed to that stage. I'll make sure to buy a lot more flour tomorrow. I'm going to need it," he giggles, making a jab at what my appetite was like when I was pregnant with Iris. From the way I'm feeling now, this child might be similar to her in the amount that it eats. This hint of a growing appetite is far too familiar.

"Shut up, Peeta. If you're going to make fun of me, the least you could do is make me something good."

"At midnight? I'm not sure I feel like it."

"You should know better than to tease me when I'm emotionally unstable."

"But you're always emotionally unstable," Peeta jokes, obviously having a lot of fun teasing me.

"Or I could kick you out of the bed and make you sleep on the couch."

"Right, so what do you want?"

I smirk.

"Cake."

"Katniss, cake takes a long time."

"Sounds like your problem to me."

Peeta shakes his head and laughs.

"Come on, let's go downstairs. But you're not getting any of the batter. No raw eggs."

"Fine," I snap, but there is no malice in it. I follow Peeta downstairs, glad to have my mind off of the whole mess that was tonight. But my mind drifts away easily with Peeta, as he calmly and happily makes cake for me after midnight. I am barely aware, later, of his carrying me up to bed. I've fallen asleep with my head on the table. But I am unconcerned. I am with Peeta, so all is as well as it can be.

My mother tells me the next day that she is going to be spending a lot of time each day in Sage's practice. She says Sage is way too far along to be bustling around dealing with every medical emergency in District 12, and that people won't know to come here. So my mother will work out of Sage's practice. I nod and tell her I'll be in the woods and Peeta will be here, if she needs anything. She smiles tentatively at me. I know what she's thinking.

"Of course you'll be in the woods. You haven't changed hardly at all, Katniss," she smiles. I try a tentative smile back.

I am in the woods, weaving through brush and leaves on the forest floor when it happens. A mockingjay roosting above me somewhere whistles an intricate tune that I know well. It is an old song that has been passed down through generations in District 12. It has probably heard it from someone around town and flown here, still singing it. And as it begins its song, I feel a familiar, bubbling flip in my belly. I start just as I did when I first felt Iris move. But this time, I force myself not to relapse. I tell myself that it is alright. I've done this before. I resolve to get that length of rope when I get home. But for now, I have to do what I can here to distract myself. I talk to the child instead of hyperventilating. And it works. I am not sure what makes this movement easier to deal with. Whether the movement is different, or I've just done this before and am better equipped to handle it. Whatever the case, I am not comfortable, and am a bit on edge, but I am not breaking under it.

"Hey," I smile tightly at my stomach. "What is it? What's got you so excited?"

The same swirling movement continues. Each time the mockingjay pauses, it stops. And the movement continues each time the song starts again. The movement is not urgent, although I'm not sure it can be with how small the child is. But even so, I know the baby is not frightened.

"You like the bird, don't you?"

As if answering, the child seems to do a sort of flip. Or it feels that way. The mockingjay stops eventually, having grown tired of its song. And the movement stops too.

"So you like that song? How about this one?"

I begin a short, simple tune. The light movement is even stronger when I'm singing. Even through my anxiety, I can't help but laugh.

"You like music." It is the first thing I have learned about the child. I can't know for sure, but I have a feeling that this child will be musical like me. Iris likes to hear me sing, but doesn't show much interest in music otherwise. But this child isn't even born and is already hopelessly excited to hear the mockingjays and me sing. All I can think of now is how I can't wait to see what else this child loves. I know that Iris loves painting, is captivated by bright colors, that her favorite place is in the woods, and that she is drawn to water. I wonder what this child's list will be like.

The child continues to respond to the birds, and to me, all day. There is a huge population of mockingjays in District 12, and they sing often, so there is almost constant movement all day. Especially when I'm in town, where music is more plentiful. People strumming away on old, well-loved instruments, or casually humming as they go about their business. I am both overjoyed and frazzled by the time I get home. Peeta picks up on it quickly.

"Are you feeling alright? I can't tell if you look upset or not."

"That's because I'm not sure either," I sigh, shaking my head. "Kid's been moving all day."

"Really?" Peeta grins.

"Oh yeah. But only when it hears music. It likes music," I smile tiredly. Peeta smiles the happiest, warmest smile I've seen on him in a while.

"It's like you that way, then," he tells me wistfully.

"I guess so. I've been trying to keep a lid on things," I sigh. "But you know how it gets me."

"I know. I'm impressed. I was waiting for that to start. I dug up that bit of rope a week ago."

"I may still need it. It's taken a lot to keep going today."

Peeta wordlessly hands me the length of rope in seconds. I slowly start working through a series of knots. I keep my head above water for most of the day, and the child doesn't move all the time, so I do have breaks. It's even worse when Iris comes bounding in, because I have to keep a straight face in front of her. Iris isn't the most perceptive person, but she loves me and knows me well and I know she'll pick up on it if I look upset. Eventually my mother quietly slips back into the house, tentatively rounding the corner into the kitchen. Peeta smiles warmly at her, invites her to sit down, and tells her that dinner will be ready soon. My mother notices me then, with the rope in my hands, and her eyebrows furrow. Iris notices it too, around the same time.

"Mama, what's that?" she asks eagerly.

"It's just rope, little duck."

"What are you doing with it?"

"Sometimes, if I'm tired or I have a lot to think about, I tie knots in it. Different kinds of knots. It keeps your hands busy and your mind off things."

"You can tie different knots?"

"Yeah. Look, watch this one."

I show Iris a knot that looks fairly elaborate, but that really only requires a few simple movements. I let her try it. Her hands are a little small to be able to tie the knot correctly. She can barely get knots in the small bits of wire I use for snares, so heavy rope is too clunky for her. But I tell her that she's definitely on her way to being an excellent knot-tier. That's enough for her. She grins and scampers off, distracted, to badger Peeta. I can barely eat my dinner, as I have to put the rope down. I'm trying, but I've been fighting this all day, trying not to react as violently as I did with Iris. It is a small bit easier, but it is still a tiring experience. By the time Peeta puts Iris to bed, I rock, with my eyes screwed shut, breathing levelly and deeply, trying knots. I am exhausted.

"Katniss, why do you have that rope from all those years ago?" my mother asks.

"Remember I told you I had to do this last time? I don't react well to the kicking and the movement. The rope keeps me above water," I sigh, keeping my voice level.

Peeta appears then. He sighs, eyeing me sadly and worriedly.

"Is there a way to help it?" my mother asks, eyebrows raised. She's obviously concerned.

"I usually just put my hand over her belly and talk her through it," I watch Peeta look between us for a moment, before staring, thoughtful, at my mother.

"Why don't you help her out for me tonight? I've got an order I'm working on and I'm sure she'd like to have you there."

Peeta is trying to ease the tension between us, trying to make my mother feel more comfortable around our house and around me. Trying to help her try to understand and help me. And as always, Peeta is able to soothe ease the tension in the room. My mother hesitates before walking over to me, and sitting down in the chair adjacent to me. Very slowly, lightly and gently, she puts her palm over the swirling in my belly. It stops for the most part. But even if it doesn't, the weight of her hand distracts me. I sigh.

"Does that help?"

"Yeah," I nod, grateful.

After a minute, my mother gathers up the courage to take control. She gently pries the rope from my hands, and replaces it with her own hand. Eventually, she starts murmuring the same sort of soothing words she did when I was small. Encouragements, assurances that everything is fine, soft shushes. I close my eyes and suddenly I am a child again. I've scraped my knee outside, and my mother has me in her lap, holding my hand, telling me that all is well. And I believe her wholeheartedly. Father is in the next room, Prim toddles around in front of us. I drift off this way, with my head on my mother's shoulder, and for the first time in almost thirty years, I feel like I have my mother back.

_**Hope everyone enjoyed! As always, do pop by and leave a review and tell me what you thought! Thanks for reading! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	17. Chapter 17

_**Hey guys! I know it's been a few weeks, but I don't think it's been quite a month, so that's better than it has been, right? I was at NY Comic Con, so that's the craziness that has been occupying my life lately. But if it wasn't that, it'd be school, haha. Anyway, here's the next chapter! Hope you enjoy!**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing at all.**_

In the subsequent week, my mother gradually and tentatively begins to make my well-being during my pregnancy her responsibility. She is not always forthcoming, and often I have to subtly and gently convince her that her efforts will not be rebuked. After all, we have spent the last thirty years with a strained distance between one another. But for the first time since my father died, I feel like my mother will take care of me if anything is amiss. Between her and Peeta, I am almost comfortable. The rope is rarely in my hands anymore; it is only there when Peeta has to go somewhere while my mother is working at Sage's. Peeta looks after me in the daytime, my mother takes care of me at night until I go to sleep, curled up against Peeta again. She even seems to have adopted the same inclination with Iris. If I'm noticeably unperturbed, my mother occupies Iris, which is a relief for both me and Peeta. Iris is a handful. A joyful one, but a handful all the same. Having a third person to help look after her eases my passage that much more.

Iris obviously adores my mother. Iris is an imminently trusting and loving sort of person, so she likely would've welcomed any guest in our home. But she seems to like my mother particularly well. I am unsure why. I suspect she realizes that my mother makes me feel better. Iris notices when her mama doesn't feel well, regardless of how much I try to hide it or how convincingly I hide it. I'm sure she's pleased that my rocky days are fewer. Either that or she enjoys the shy, but meticulous attention from my mother. Whatever the case, this time I can tell that my mother is trying and we can all feel the quiet, helping aura around the house. Before, I had sworn that my mother had the worst possible timing. But now that she is obviously working as hard as she can to convince me of her sincerity, I can't help but notice how much her presence helps. She reminds me a lot of Prim these days. It has been so long since my mother has treated me this way that I forgot that Prim got her healing nature from her. It has been a long time since I've felt that light, soothing presence that I have only ever felt from Prim and, long ago, from my mother. And now that I have it back after so many decades, I can do nothing but breathe a sigh of relief.

It is a good time for her to be here, as I'm entering the more difficult stage of things. The stage of not being able to wear my own clothes, of getting suspicious looks, of near-constant kicking. Peeta does everything in his power to get me through things smoothly, but he's one person. And as much as I tease him, he's not wrong about my being high-maintenance during pregnancy. We're both happy to have a second person helping us.

Now my attention is able to be directed elsewhere. I have not told Iris about her new baby brother or sister. I had resolved to tell her when Sage had her baby. But Sage seems like she might go past term just a little and I don't want to wait so long that Iris becomes suspicious. Iris isn't always observant, but she'll notice a difference in me. I don't want her to have to ask any questions. I don't want her to feel as if something is amiss or as if I am keeping anything from her. I resolve then, in my tree in the woods, to tell her that night. No sense in prolonging it. When I get home, I ask Peeta if he thinks tonight would be a good night to broach the subject. It is not my news exclusively. Peeta will have to field Iris's questions as much as I will. But Peeta smiles and I can see the excitement in his eyes.

"Tonight is as good as any."

Peeta is clearly itching to see how Iris takes the news. He seems confident that she will take it quite well. I'm not so sure, but Peeta does understand Iris frighteningly well. I nod and put any anxiety out of my mind. I trust Peeta.

Iris is due home any minute when I hear the phone ring. I scowl lightly to myself before answering. It must be important, whatever it is, as almost no one in twelve has a phone like we do. I breathe a small sigh of relief as I hear my mother's voice.

"Katniss?"

"Mom? What's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, don't panic. Sage just went into labor this morning, that's all."

"Oh. Well, what do you need us for?"

"Peeta can stay home, but I think I need you down here soon."

I swallow hard.

"Mom, you know I'm not good at the kind of stuff you do. I'm not sure I'd be much help."

"You don't have to do much. Just go get the things I tell you to when I need it. It'll be a lot more difficult with just me. I'd appreciate it if you would. You don't have to, though, if it really bothers you."

I sigh and do not reply immediately.

"I will say I think Sage might feel better with you here."

"Why would Sage want me there?"

"It's hard, sometimes, to do this sort of thing alone. Sage doesn't have a lot of people. I haven't even been here two weeks and I know that much. You and Peeta are nearly the only friends she has. And you are so strong, Katniss. You're a heartening sort of person to have around for things like this."

I do not cope with medical processes well. I do not know how to react to stress, to pain, to tears, to sweat and blood. Not even my own. But I cannot deny the inclination to take care of Sage. She is so, so young. Younger than even Prim would've been. Against my better judgement, I sigh again and tell her, "Alright. I'll be there soon."

Peeta looks curiously towards me as I hang up the phone.

"What does your mother need?"

"Sage is in labor. She wants me to go help with things."

"Are you sure you'll be alright? You don't like hospitals."

"I hate them. But she doesn't have anyone else, Peeta."

Peeta nods, smiling softly at me.

"You always do take care of people. Just try to take care of yourself in the midst of it."

"I will."

"Which means you'll put everyone else before you and forget about yourself."

"Which is why I have you to take care of me."

"That you do. You always have and you always will."

I can't help but grin back at Peeta as I step outside and turn towards town.

I grit my teeth as I walk in to see my mother reading charts and Sage, tight-lipped, eyes screwed shut, standing, clinging to the edge of the bed just as I did with Iris. My mother tells me she's about halfway, which seems right as I watch her sway back and forth shakily. I notice she hasn't even realized I'm here yet.

"So, you'll have a chance today to get revenge on me for throwing that clock at you with Iris," I venture. Sage doesn't open her eyes, but I watch her eyebrows arch in surprise and recognition and she laughs in spite of herself.

"I have a feeling that prospect is going to look very attractive by the end of this," she huffs, speech cut short as her fists tighten around the metal bar along the bed. She looks very small and painfully young in this moment, curled up the way she is.

"I can't really do anything worth a damn medically for you. I'm sorry. But if you want to walk around or something-" I trail off, inept in this sort of situation. "Whatever you need," I attempt again. Sage, as usual, is unperturbed by my stuttering.

"Walking would be good, thank you." Even in such pain, she hasn't completely lost her put-together, clipped demeanor. Not yet anyway. I loop an arm around her middle, as she did with me, and steer her towards the center of the room. I do not say anything. I am not sure what to say. I cannot think of any soothing words as she curls in on herself, knees buckling, surprisingly strong hand nearly cutting off circulation in my own. I cannot think of how to react when she groans, long and harsh and pained and primal. I just pace back and forth with her, the two of us like two restless, caged wild animals.

Things look even worse here from the other side of things. Before today, I had only seen short glimpses of women in labor when I was unlucky enough to stumble upon it around our house. And with Iris, I was only conscious of managing the strain of it, and would've had no way anyway to watch myself descend into pained desperation. But today I have to watch Sage do it all. For someone who does not cope well with others' pain, it is excruciating. If I were more like Peeta, I would at least be able to come up with something to say to her. But I am a person of few words even when passionate about something. So now, I am completely silent. I just stand as strong and still as I can, holding her up, pushing back against her hand so she has something to bear down on when she pauses in the middle of the room every few minutes. At first, I can tell that Sage is trying to act as if she isn't grateful for the help or as if she doesn't need it. But our half-playful facade slowly dissolves as the afternoon turns into evening. There comes a point where Sage cannot stay standing any longer. She turns towards me, clutching both of my arms so hard I'm sure there'll be bruising. I don't move her. I just hold her there as she breathes deep and strained, trying to hold in the keening moan I know she wants to let out. After a while, I tell her so.

"Just let it out, Sage. Holding it in will make you feel worse," I mutter. It is the only advice I have given her so far. Because I don't know what kind of advice to give when I know that all she can do is work through it as best she can. Sage does not appear to want to lie down. She just stands in the middle of the room, propped against me, feet planted. She does not speak. Just breathes in a long, slow hiss and sweats and moans that keening moan that I did, that all women seem to do, that sounds just like a feral cat it's so animal. I watch her small face contort to the point that it is unrecognizable. My mother comes by often to check on Sage and I just hold her there as I have been for hours.

"I don't know why you say you're not good at this, Katniss," my mother smiles at one point.

"I'm not. I'm just standing here."

My mother shakes her head, still smiling.

But true to my mother's assertion, Sage seems to appreciate my presence. She moans a "thank you" into my shoulder, forehead barely touching me. I try to tell her that it's nothing, but she keeps going. I have never heard Sage speak so sincerely before this. I suppose the pain makes insincerity near-impossible, since I behaved largely the same in labor with Iris.

"I never thought Katniss Everdeen would be helping me through labor," she chuckles, strained. "But then I didn't think I'd be in labor ever, so-" Sage pauses, hand clenching around my arm, gritting her teeth through a contraction.

"You helped me," I shrug, unsure where she's going with this. Sage shakes her head.

"It's not the same. You don't know how people feel about you, Katniss. You were everything to my family. We were so bad off. And my mother told me we'd have a chance, that I'd have a chance at normal life if you pulled through. If you did it. You were our chance. I wouldn't be here if not for you. I'd be a Capitol-made morphling working in the underbelly of a factory in 6. And instead I'm here and I have no idea why you're my friend or why you bother with me at all. I just know that no one else does except you. Thank you."

"I mean, you bother with me, so-"

Sage laughs and shakes her head.

"When you're the reason I'm here at all, I'll do anything you need. I'll just tease you for it because I can't help it."

I just chuckle and hold her up as she curls over again. I do not know when Sage became one of the people I worry about. There are only a few. Peeta. Iris. Prim and Rue when they were alive. Somehow, callous, snappish Sage has wormed her way there. Maybe it is that she is so very similar to me. Maybe it's that I can imagine myself in this same place twenty years from now, with Iris, or with this new baby; holding them steady like this. Maybe it's just because I know she needs me. Whatever the reason, I grit my teeth as the strained, keening whimper slips through her lips and resolve to help see her through this.

"Well, you don't have to question it. I'm not leaving you alone and that's all you need to worry about right now."

Sage's furrowed brow relaxes as much as possible as she hangs her head with a half-tired, half-relieved sigh. I watch my mother smile her slow, quiet smile out of the corner of my eye.

Eventually, Sage is forced to the bed as she starts shaking so violently she can't stand even with my support. I wonder now about poor Peeta; how did he make it through this with me? I know that I'm alarmed myself watching Sage dig her nails into the mattress. Peeta becomes easily frightened when I'm in obvious pain. It's a combination of the concern he's always had for my well-being and the psychological remnants of the tracker jacker venom. And he got through it without any problems. It couldn't have been easy. Always trying to look after me. I shake my head wondering how in the world he manages to keep up with me.

Then comes the point that all hell breaks loose. I don't remember what Sage called it, but I remember what it feels like. The nausea, my throat closing in on me, no breaks in the maddening pain.

"This is what that feels like?!" Sage shrieks, eyes flying open before they're screwed shut again.

"Yeah. Now you know why I threw the clock."

"I knew in _theory_ what it was like, but-" Sage can't finish her sentence. It spirals down into an amorphous wail that I'm sure people can hear halfway to the Victor's Village. My mother is briskly moving things around and gathering things.

"She doesn't have long. And what is this I hear about a clock, Katniss?"

"I...well, when I was in labor with Iris, I threw a clock at Sage. There's still a mark on the wall if you look."

"You what?! Why?"

"She told me to breathe and I didn't want to, so I threw it," I mutter.

"Katniss," my mother sighs.

"I won't tell you to do anything with that next one. Nothing. Because if either of you try to tell me to do shit right now I will harm you. Physically harm you. I swear I will."

My mother's eyes widen.

"What is with you both? I didn't threaten anyone when I was in labor!"

"Mom, you can't even kill mosquitos. You couldn't threaten anyone if you tried."

"I suppose not. But I know not to try to give either one of you any sort of advice. Apparently my life depends on it."

"It does," Sage growls, fist clenched on the mattress.

"You know if you hit the mattress it helps."

"Shut up," Sage snaps, but she does heed my advice and weakly hits the mattress in rhythm. Sage looks and sounds truly frightening now. Inhuman almost. She shivers and shakes, claws and punches at the mattress and the pillows, that constant howl echoing bestially in the room.

"Is she almost ready?" I ask my mother warily.

"In just a minute, yes. Go ahead and sit her up."

I put my arm around her shoulders and hold her up as far as I can like Peeta did with me. I am shaking a bit myself along with Sage. The piercing sound of her has been grating on me all day, reducing me to a bundle of nerves. But I don't leave. My mother is as unperturbed as she always is in hospitals. She calmly puts Sage's legs in those strange metal stirrups, seems immune to the crescendoing shrieks and the smell of blood. I hold Sage steady and bear back against her hand as hard as I can. She squeezes my hand so hard it goes numb and the tips of my fingers are purple with blood trapped in the ends of them. Sage pushes and strains for a long while, sweat dripping from her hairline, glistening along her arms and legs, glittering along her cheekbones. I watch her face turn from a stressed pink, to a bright, angry red, to a bruised, wounded purple. She nearly looks blue when my mother tells me to prop her up farther and hold her leg back; she's having trouble laid back the way she is. I stand at the side of the bed, holding her leg as far back as I can, with her foot braced against my hand, pushing against the formidable strength that comes with pain and adrenaline as best I can. My mother has her other leg. My mother calls directions to her, clear and strong. I know Sage probably can't hear them. I say nothing. I just hold her leg back as it trembles and spasms in my hand, hold her hand with my other hand and let her cut off the circulation in it. This part takes longer for Sage than it did for me. I suppose a lot of that has to do with Iris. Once she decided she was ready to come out, she was out in record time. Once Iris decides to do something, nothing can stop her. I wish for Sage's sake that her child would do the same. She's been straining like this for a long time. I can see the fatigue in the grimace on her face.

Finally, I hear my mother tell us that the baby's almost out. I squeeze Sage's hand more tightly as she grits her teeth and with a final, guttural shriek from her, I watch the child slip free. My mother puts the tiny, flopping, slippery, blood-covered baby on her stomach, and immediately starts cleaning the child off. She smiles and tells Sage, who is as tiredly confused as I was right after Iris was born, that it's a little boy. The child lets out a very strong, sharp wail. Just as mouthy as his mother already. I steady Sage's hand so she can cut the cord herself. She's shaking too hard to do it without help. I don't let go of her hand. I can see the wonder and the immense fear in her eyes. I know how it feels. To realize what it means. To be the happiest and the most terrified you've ever been in your life, and to wonder why in the world you went through with this and to not question it at all, all at the same time. To wonder whether the tears streaming down your own face are joyful or frightened or devastated ones and know that you'll never know which one it was. My mother takes the child away for a moment to clean him up properly and make sure he's alright. I watch her check him over. And I feel myself stop breathing as she pauses. I've seen that look on her face many times before. It's barely detectable. Only someone who knows her as well as I do would see it. But her lips purse a little, her eyebrows furrow, and she stops moving for a split second before she keeps going. The baby is still whimpering, disgruntled. I catch my mother's eye and she waves me over. It is not lost on Sage. Nothing ever is.

"Something's wrong. Don't let her sugar coat it. Come back and tell me exactly what's going on."

"You know I will," I nod grimly. Where my mother will try to cushion the blow, I will not. Sage and I are similar in that respect. We do not want pulled punches. We want to know exactly how bad off things are. And I will make sure she knows, as much as it will pain us both.

I walk over to my mother as she tensely runs tests on the baby. But I know what's wrong as soon as I see him. He blinks confusedly, grey eyes darting around in quick back-and forth movements. But his eyes are not the same grey as mine, as my father's, as everyone in the Seam. It is not the same clear grey, but a milky, cloudy one. His little eyes do not follow my mother's finger as she passes it in front of his nose. His pupils don't respond the way they should as my mother shines a little pen light in his eyes. His blinking, darting eyes are directionless. The baby is clearly, devastatingly blind.

"He's not responding to anything visual. I don't think I can do anything. I think some of the advanced doctors that used to work in the Capitol used to do an elaborate surgery, but even that-" my mother speaks, sharp and urgent, grasping at straws. "If we could get him to someone. But I don't know who could do anything. It's probably not even possible-"

I shake my head. My mother quiets. We both know that nothing can be done.

"Mom. We both know this can't be fixed. It's okay. You did your best. It's nothing anyone could've fixed."

"I just wish I could do something," she sighs.

"Me too." And I mean it. I don't want to turn and look at Sage and tell her. She's so frightened already, though she'd never admit it. She's alone. I almost wish it could've been my child. Not that I'd wish it on anyone. But why Sage? Why does it have to be her? She's already alone and frightened and obviously unsure about everything. And now this. Now she will worry about taking care of a child who lives in a world that won't accommodate him. It will be difficult. I at least have Peeta and Iris. But she has no one. I cannot understand why the universe would put so much on one person. I want so badly to help her and have no idea how to.

"Is he okay otherwise?"

"Oh yes. He's perfectly healthy."

My mother wraps him up tightly and he continues his disgruntled whimpering. I get to Sage before my mother does.

"What's wrong with him?" she demands, voice shaking.

I do not know how to tell her other than blurting it unceremoniously. Sage does not want me to sugarcoat it.

"He's blind."

Sage's eyes widen and she puts a shaking hand over her mouth. And she bites her lip as my mother hands him to her and he opens his milky eyes and squeaks at her, gaze just a little off-center. And I know that the tears that course down her face now are devastated ones. Because she already inexplicably loves him and knows that his life will not be easy. I wish with everything I have that Peeta was here right now. He would know what to tell her. He would have something to say to make her feel better about things. It would be the perfect thing to say in this moment. I can do nothing but stand here with her and stare at the baby's blank gaze.

"What's his name?" my mother asks softly. Sage's eyes don't leave the baby. She strokes his chubby, ruddy cheek with her finger, slowly and sadly.

"Florian," she whispers. It's a clear District 6 name, more on the ornamental side of things, but still natural and practical. Sage's own name is more typical of 12.

My mother quietly writes everything down as Sage stares at the child, disbelieving and exhausted. Her eyelids droop in her pale, wan face after a while.

"Give him to me for a bit. You should get some sleep if you can," I suggest tentatively. Sage hesitates.

"He'll be alright. I promise." And Sage and I both know I'm not just talking about tonight. She can tell in the way I set my jaw that I mean it. I don't know how we'll do it, but Peeta and I aren't going to leave her alone to figure all of this out. We'll make sure Florian is alright. I don't know how, but I've never left a child to fend for themselves and I'm not going to start now. And I'm not sure if it's Sage or Florian I'm thinking of as the thought crosses my mind. It doesn't matter. Sage slowly hands me the child, sighing heavily. She is asleep almost immediately. I know the feeling. I was asleep only a few minutes after Iris was born. I prop Florian on my barely protruding stomach. My mother sighs and comes over to us.

"Thank you for coming to help me. She needed it."

"I know. I'm glad I was here now. Do you know what happened? Was it anything you could pinpoint?"

"No. It's congenital, whatever it is. It wasn't anything that went wrong developmentally that anyone could've prevented. It just...happened."

I put my little finger up to Florian's tiny, ruddy hand. He clenches his fist around it, squawking a little. He's clearly marginally upset that I'm not his mother. But he seems to recognize that I'm an ally of some sort at the very least, so he protests relatively little about my holding him.

"You don't have to stay long. I'll stay with her tonight to make sure she and Florian are alright. You need to get back to Peeta and Iris soon."

I nod, but I stay for a while with Florian all the same. He sits with his hand clenched around my finger. Sometimes he starts fussing a little and I quiet him as best I can with soothing sounds and words. A few times, he waves his arms about and finds my braid, tangling his tiny, clumsy fingers in it. He seems to like the way it feels. When he finally falls asleep, I have to carefully untangle his surprisingly strong, ruddy fingers from it lest I wake him. My mother wordlessly takes him and I make the silent walk back to the Victor's Village. To my surprise, Iris is still awake when I cross the threshold. Peeta shrugs at me sheepishly.

"She couldn't sleep. I think she wants to hear about Sage's baby. And I do too, so I don't blame her."

"It's a little boy. His name is Florian."

"I like his name!" Iris exclaims, grinning.

"Me too, little duck."

But Peeta can see that something is amiss.

"What happened? Is he alright?"

I sigh.

"Katniss, what happened with the baby?"

"Nothing really _happened_. It's just...he's blind."

Peeta says nothing. Just stares, shocked and clearly worried.

"He's healthy otherwise."

"How did Sage take it?"

"As well as I would have. As anyone would have."

Peeta nods gravely.

"Mama, what's wrong with the baby?" Iris has gleaned enough from our exchange to know something's off. She's quite concerned from what I can tell. I kneel down to explain it to her.

"Nothing's wrong with him. He's just blind, little duck." I want to emphasize to her now that there is nothing inherently wrong with the child.

"What does that mean?"

"It means he doesn't see like you and I do."

Iris pauses, trying to digest this.

"So, what does he see?"

"Nothing, little duck. You know how things look when you close your eyes?"

"Yes. All dark."

"Well, I imagine what he sees is something like that. Probably not completely, though."

"Oh. Can we go see him tomorrow?"

I chuckle at how quickly Iris absorbs and accepts this news and moves right on.

"I'm sure Miss Sage wouldn't mind. We can't stay long because she'll be very tired, but I'm sure she'll let you visit with him for a few minutes."

"Okay!"

It doesn't take Iris long to quiet down. She's been up far past her bed time and she tires out quickly. Peeta puts her to bed and comes back down to find me staring into the fire.

"I wish you had been there. You would've known what to tell her. I didn't know what to do with her, Peeta. She just stared at that baby and I knew she was thinking about how she's going to take care of him and I don't know how to help her."

"I'm sure you did just fine. I'm not sure I would've known what to do either."

I shake my head. He would've known. He always does.

"Go see how she is tomorrow. But for now, you need to go to sleep. I know how well you and hospitals work. Let's go to bed. We can handle the rest tomorrow."

I wordlessly follow Peeta. I fall asleep curled up next to him, trying to forget the look on Sage's face.

The next day, I bring Iris into the woods with me so we can go back by Sage's together later. I want to make sure she's alright as much as Iris wants to see Florian. Iris is clearly only focused on meeting Florian, as she scares away half the game we come across with her excited prattling. She does manage to correctly disengage some squirrels from my squirrel trap. I don't stay in the woods long as the both of us are anxious to get to Sage's. My mother answers the door when we arrive and smiles as she notices Iris clinging to my neck.

"Hi grandma!"

"Hi Iris. What are you doing here?"

"I wanna see the baby!"

"Iris, we have to ask Sage first. How is she?" I lower my voice a little.

"Tired. A little overwhelmed. But she's better than she was yesterday."

"Is she awake? Do you think she's up for a visit?"

"Yeah she's awake. I think she'd like to see you. Let me make sure."

My mother returns shortly and ushers us in. Sage is sitting propped up on the same bed, partway back to her usual, brusque self. She's got Florian tucked under her arm, bouncing him lightly up and down. Iris wastes no time in darting forward towards her. I rush after her, holding in a frustrated sigh.

"Iris, be careful! Babies are fragile and Miss Sage is a little fragile right now too."

Iris peers into the baby's face, craning her neck to get a good enough look at him. And I nearly combust when Iris asks, "Why do his eyes look like that?"

"Dammit!" I curse under my breath. I truly cannot trust Iris in any sort of social situation. "Iris, what did I tell you about questions like that?! We've talked about this! More than once!"

Iris shrinks. But Sage pauses for a moment before she starts laughing hysterically. I'm not sure whether it's all of the stress of the past 24 hours, whether she's laughing at the look on my face and my reaction, or if she's glad that Iris isn't treading on eggshells around the issue. Whatever the reason, it is a relief to see her laugh.

"Some people who are blind have eyes that look like this. Not everyone, but some," she explains patiently, still laughing, clearly looking at me. So she is laughing about my having to keep up with Iris. I huff.

"Laugh now. In about five years, it's going to be the same thing with Florian. Bet me. He'll have no filter. He is _your_ kid after all."

"Can I hold him?" Iris interrupts.

I give Sage the high sign not to let her.

"Why don't we let your grandmother hold him and you all can sit together. How's that?"

Iris accepts eagerly and settles with my mother and Florian on the edge of one of the beds a few over from us. Sage sighs deeply, staring at him.

"Are you alright?" I ask tentatively.

"I suppose," she answers briskly. "Although I can't help but keep wondering. If I hadn't been monitoring myself on my own for this whole pregnancy, would this have happened?" she finishes without the same brisk confidence.

I shake my head.

"I think it would've happened regardless. Not everything is under your control, Sage. Not everything is your fault. That's something I'm still learning."

Sage looks at me curiously.

"Why would you have to learn that? What in the world do you think is your fault?"

I sigh.

"A lot of things. Mostly what happened to my sister. And to Peeta."

"But that was completely out of your control."

"So what makes you think that this was in your control? The same thing that keeps me thinking that I could've prevented all of the things I mentioned. Neither one of us is good at accepting that we aren't in control all of the time. You didn't do this. No one did."

Sage nods. I know that she doesn't accept my assertion completely. But then, I don't ever completely accept the same advice from others. Iris giggles and I look over to see Florian grasping her small index finger and making the squeaking, gurgling noises that all newborns make. I hear my mother quietly advising Iris to make sure to talk to him and play with his fingers and toes; anything he'll be able to hear or feel. We just watch them for a while, silent. Iris seems to enjoy interacting with Florian. Of course, Iris is fascinated by any sort of new experience. But I hope that the seemingly positive reaction she has towards Florian will carry over to my telling her about her new sibling. Peeta and I planned to tell her last night, but of course after Sage went into labor, we never got the chance. We're agreed to tell her tonight. I anxiously watch her with Florian, hoping she ends up liking her little sibling this much.

"What do you think of him?" I ask her, testing the waters.

"He's very small," Iris explains, matter of fact.

"You've got that part right," I chuckle. Iris continues, thinking.

"He squeaks a lot, and his face is red and squishy, and he's very cute, and he likes to grab people's fingers."

I can't help but laugh at Iris's strangely accurate and detailed description of Florian. Sage is equally amused and cackles on the bed behind me.

"Do you like him or not?" I ask. I can't tell. All she's done is tell me the obvious details about the child.

"Yes, even though he can't talk yet."

Sage and I keep laughing. My mother timidly joins in with the quiet titter she does. Iris is so unfailingly and innocently honest.

"What? Why is everyone laughing?" Iris demands, a scowl forming over her bright blue eyes, aware now that we must be laughing at something she's said.

"Nothing, little duck. I'm sorry, we'll stop," I wheeze, stroking her little braid to try and placate her. She huffs but is otherwise appeased. Eventually, Sage sighs and gathers Florian out of my mother's arms as he starts fussing. He quiets as soon as she has him tucked in her elbow.

"Why are you sad, Miss Sage?" Iris pipes, little blue eyes staring right through her just like they stare through me. Sage raises her eyebrows a little. She's not used to Iris's frightening insight like I am.

"I'm not sad," she explains, matter of fact and direct as ever.

"Then why do you look like that?" Iris frowns, still staring. Sage concedes.

"I'm just worried about Florian, little one."

"Why?"

Sage clearly forces herself to hold Iris's curious gaze.

"Because I want to take care of him as best I can and I know I can't protect him from everything he'll have to deal with," Sage tells her quietly, but levelly. She is as unflinchingly honest as Iris.

"Because he can't see?"

"Yes."

"But that's silly, Miss Sage," Iris asserts, confident. Sage quirks a terse eyebrow.

"How so?"

"Because he's happy. And he's smart like you. The way his eyes are is part of him," she explains as if it should be imminently clear, almost as if she thinks we're a little slow if it hasn't occurred to us. "Like how you're a doctor and Mama likes to shoot things and Daddy has blond hair. It's the same."

I huff a little when she mentions me, but I can't help but smile at her after. I never would've thought along the lines that Iris is thinking along now. Both Sage and I were preoccupied with how difficult things might be for Florian. It has not occurred to either of us that Florian might be perfectly happy the way he is. Sage looks at me, before glancing down to Florian. He gurgles. She turns to Iris. And we both realize that we have been foolish in this moment. There are only a few times I've been glad to be proven wrong. Now is one of them. As much as Iris blurt at times when it might not be socially convenient, her innocent honesty also gives way to times like this one. She has a positive and pragmatic view of the world. I love to watch the ways she's different from me, or from Peeta, but mostly, from the both of us. She eyes me warily as I stare down at her.

"Was I not supposed to say that?"

"No, you were right to say that, little duck," I murmur. I lean down to kiss her dark, silky head. I try to contain the grin that threatens to overtake as Sage and my mother continue staring at her as I have been. I do not succeed. I am far too proud of her in this moment to hold it in. Iris seems to understand that whatever she's said was a good thing. She grins, beaming, at me. All I can do is smile back.

Sometime in the late afternoon, we leave Sage with a sleeping Florian. My mother makes sure she's alright and briefs her on a few things before we leave. She makes Sage promise to call us if she needs help, or if anyone comes by with a medical emergency sometime in the night. Sage tersely nods and gives her word. We all walk silently together, the only sound the combination of my mother's small, clicking steps, my long, near-silent strides, and Iris's noisy, bouncing leaps a few paces ahead of us.

Peeta looks up from the cake he's working on and grins as the three of us trail in, Iris first, my mother second, and me bringing up the rear, closing the door behind us all.

"Daddy, we saw the baby today and he was cute!" Iris exclaims, throwing her hands in the air, excitedly briefing Peeta on it all.

"I bet he was. I'll have to go by and meet him sometime this week."

"He was really small and his head is all fuzzy because his hair is still short."

Peeta giggles.

"Sounds like you two got along."

"Yes!"

Peeta catches my eye, questioning. We might as well try to broach this while Iris is still preoccupied with the idea of babies. My mother watches, interested.

"So you liked Florian, then?"

"Yeah!" Iris assures him, nodding.

"Good. How would you feel about a baby being around here? In our house?"

Iris pauses.

"Are we bringing Florian here?"

"No, little duck," I assure her. "We mean another baby. A little brother or sister."

Iris is silent for a moment, digesting the information.

"A brother or sister? Like Holly has?"

"Yes. But younger, since Holly's brother and sister are older than she is," I explain.

"How would you feel about that?" Peeta asks her. We all eye her anxiously as she thinks it over.

"There would be another baby, here with us?"

"Yes."

"Would it be little like Florian?"

We all chuckle.

"Yes, little duck. Like Florian."

Iris nods.

"It would be good, I think," Iris nods gravely. Peeta grins at her before she continues. "Are we bringing it home tomorrow?"

I cackle to myself. Iris still hasn't completely grasped how pregnancy works. But at least she's fully prepared for a baby to come into the house. She clearly thinks the change is going to be immediate.

"No, it'll be a few months before that," Peeta explains. "But you know how Sage looked really round because Florian was in her belly?"

"Oh yeah!" Iris exclaims. "Mama, are you going to have a baby in your belly?"

"The baby is already in there, little duck. It's just not quite big enough for you to tell yet."

"Wow! Are you going to look fatter, like Miss Sage did?"

I sigh, scowling lightly as Peeta tries with everything he has to squash the giggles that threaten to escape. My mother is already laughing.

I growl a "yes," and Peeta loses it, giggling so hard his face is nearly purple. Iris obviously find the prospect of my looking rounder exciting. She exclaims "cool!" as Peeta's giggles go silent they're so forceful. Iris clambers up on my lap, placing a tiny hand flat against my stomach.

"So the baby is in there already!" she exclaims, grinning.

"Yeah. Right there. There's a little bump already, can you see it?"

"Yeah! Is that why you're wearing Daddy's shirt?"

"Yes. The baby's just gotten too big for Mama to wear her own shirts anymore."

"So how long until the baby comes out?"

"About five months. So we have some time to go."

"Are you excited, Iris?" Peeta asks.

"Yes! I won't be the only kid anymore," she grins. And I smile back. I've been worried since she was born about her being lonely. Now she has her friends at school. But it will be nice for her to have someone closer to her age around the house. I know being cooped up with us hasn't always been easy.

Peeta smiles softly at us as Iris curls up in my lap, her little hand still over my stomach. My mother gets a bit of a break tonight, for which I'm sure she is glad, having taken care of Sage for the past two days. She doesn't have to work me through the little, bubbling movements in my belly. Peeta does not have to talk me through the sweeping kicks. I don't need the length of rope in my hand. Because Iris stays curled up with me, asleep on my lap like a tiny, fuzzy kitten. I watch her eyelashes flutter, watch her nose and the tips of her fingers twitch as she dreams. The near-imperceptible weight of her small hand on my belly, the warmth of her cheek resting on my breastbone, the feel of the end of her small, silky braid in my hand is more than enough. In this moment, all the comfort I could hope for is her- my boisterous, bright, and happy daughter, small and innocent and asleep on my lap, guarding the light, sweeping movements of the tiny baby under her hand.

_**Hope you all enjoyed! As always, drop by and leave a review and tell me what you thought! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	18. Chapter 18

_**Hello all! Again, sorry it's been a while, but life is on the hectic side lately, so it just takes me longer to get chapters written. I haven't abandoned the story. I got a few worried reviews about that, haha. No worries, I'd post an author's note or something if I decided to. :) So just assume from here on out that if I don't post another chapter in a while, it's just taking me a long time and it'll be up eventually. Anyway, here's Chapter 18! Enjoy!**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing as usual.**_

I sigh as I trudge into town, game bag slung over my shoulder, Iris hanging on my back like the little squirrel she is, hand braced under my belly just a little, struggling to support all this extra weight. I have tried to impress upon Iris that her mama is having more trouble than usual carrying her around. She's only getting bigger as she gets older; she'll be five very soon. And the baby I'm carrying is growing just as rapidly. But Iris doesn't seem to understand. I know why. She has ultimate faith in me. She doesn't think her mama is capable of not being capable. She's never seen me be anything but perfectly able to lug her and my bag around with me. When I discourage her from climbing up on my back, her little face falls. She thinks I won't carry her, not that I can't. So more often than not I end up sighing and hoisting her up with me. Today, I get a slew of sympathetic looks, particularly from a lot of the young women in town who have children themselves. I snort a little to myself at it all. I've never dealt well with sympathy. I don't want it. But this is overshadowed by the questions. I'm not sure when it happened, but I'm big enough again that there's no mistaking that I'm pregnant. The knowing smiles are back. Some, as usual, just smile and leave it alone. But there are a few who cannot let me pass without saying something. Some just give me a "congratulations." Some laugh and shake their heads, disbelieving. A lot say something to the effect of, "Again?", and "I didn't think you'd do this once, let alone twice!" or "I can't believe Peeta got you to go through with this a second time." I usually growl a half-threatening retort at these, especially the ones who insist it was all Peeta's doing. This time, it wasn't planned by either of us. And I was the one who made the decision to go through with it. I even see Haymitch out in public today, which is a rare occurrence. He looks me up and down, takes a swig from his bottle, and laughs raucously. He growls, "That boy's dumber than I thought. He really has a death wish, letting you do that again." I make a rude gesture at him as I walk away and swat Iris's hand when she tries to mimic it.

"Oh no, you don't get to do that until you're my age."

Iris picks up on my foul mood.

"Mama, why are you mad?"

"Because people won't leave me alone."

"About your belly?"

"Yeah. See, this is why I tell you not to say things like that. It can get annoying if everyone won't leave you alone about something."

Iris nods, although I know she doesn't completely understand. She thinks for a minute before hoisting herself closer to my ear to talk to me.

"They're just happy, Mama. Don't be mad."

"I'll try, little duck. Mama just doesn't have the same patience you do."

"Yeah, you get mad really fast. But it's okay. Daddy doesn't get mad at all so someone has to be mad sometimes."

I chuckle, anger fading a little.

"I suppose you're right. But don't pester Daddy too much; he doesn't get mad a lot, but it can happen."

"Mama, when can I start learning to shoot like you?"

I smile a bit to myself. I'm nearly done with the small bow I've been working on for her for months. It just needs a little last-minute shaping and I'll have to string it. I think by next weekend she'll be able to start practicing with it.

"Soon, little duck. Be patient."

I don't have to turn around to know that Iris is pouting. I can nearly hear it. Patience is not something that Iris has ever really learned. I'm not sure she ever will.

Iris is excited to see my mother when we pass by Sage's. We don't stay long, as Sage is clearly asleep. My mother gladly has Florian in her arms, rocking him. He plays with a strand of wooden beads she wears around her neck, tangling his small fingers in between them. She lets him hopelessly tangle the strand, knotting the string more than once. I know she truly doesn't mind. My mother loves babies too much. As long as the child is with her, she'll be happy, whether he's peacefully playing or wailing his head off. I tickle his nose with the tip of a dandelion that Iris insists on giving him. He eagerly swats at it with unwieldy arms before he finds it and grasps it clumsily. He handles it for a few minutes, feeling it, trying to make sense of it. My mother whisks it away before he can put it in his mouth.

We are interrupted when Iris loops an arm around my throat and turns abruptly, effectively cutting off airflow. I sputter as she squeals, "Daddy!"

"Iris!" I choke, reaching back and plucking her off my back. As soon as she's on the ground, she runs off to where I see Peeta approaching town. Iris takes a flying leap and Peeta easily catches her and scoops her up as he always does. He kisses her cheek and she squirms, giggling. He strolls over to us as Iris prattles.

"Daddy, what are you doing here?"

"I do go outside Iris," Peeta laughs. "Just because I'm not a hunter like your mama doesn't mean I don't leave the house."

Iris ponders this and I can tell she doesn't really believe him. She bulldozes on anyway, saying, "Daddy, make Mama feel better. She's mad."

Peeta raises his eyebrows concernedly.

"Mad? What happened?" he leans in and kisses my cheek just like he's done with Iris. I scowl darkly.

"No one has left me alone about this all day," I growl, pointing at my distended stomach. Peeta nervously scratches the back of his neck.

"They don't understand that it bothers you. But if you want, I can talk to-"

"No," I intervene, snappish. "I'll be fine."

"Daddy, you're not doing a very good job. She's still mad."

We both chuckle at that. Peeta gently sets Iris down before he leans in and kisses me warmly.

"Is that better?"

I grudgingly feel my mouth quirk up.

"A little."

"Hi, Mrs. Everdeen," Peeta greets my mother politely.

"Hello Peeta," she smiles softly. Florian gurgles.

"And this must be Florian," Peeta grins, slipping into that soft, cooing voice he used with Iris when she was that small. "I haven't met Florian yet."

I smile mutedly and shake my head as Peeta coos at the child. I swear, he's just like my mother. He loves babies; they turn him into a little puddle. I cackle as he gathers Florian out of my mother's arms, bouncing him gently, toying with his small fingers.

"Maybe I should let you watch him for a while," she jokes.

"I wouldn't mind," Peeta tells her, innocent and earnest, unaware that she was joking.

"I know you wouldn't. But I know you have things to do-"

Peeta nods as if just remembering what he came out for. He reluctantly hands Florian back to my mother. He continues slowly destroying my mother's necklace. He seems to particularly enjoy the sound and texture of the small, round beads clacking together. I make a mental note of it.

"Daddy, what are you going to do?" Iris peeps, wondering where Peeta is going.

"A train just came in and Daddy has a pretty big shipment of flour and sugar and things like that coming in on it. I've got to go see about getting it up to our house."

"Oh. Can I come?"

"Sure, if you want."

Iris dances over to Peeta. He easily lifts her into his arms. She settles on one side, arms looped around his neck like they always are around mine. I'm glad Peeta's got her for a while. It'll give me time to finish the bow. I've been trying to keep it a surprise, for her birthday, which is in a few weeks. I let Peeta be on his way, tickle Florian once more, and trudge up towards the Victor's Village by myself, hand still braced under my belly. A mockingjay in the trees twitters a tune I've never heard and the child wriggles under my hand. I smile. This baby really does love the mockingjays. It moves every time it hears them. I head right back outside, leaving a note for Peeta and Iris. I retrieve the almost-complete bow and perch high in a tree, just where the mockingjays usually roost. The child moves a lot here in the trees, with the mockingjays. But the movement is clearly peaceful; not the occasional restless bubble that happens sometimes at home. I carve on the tiny bow with a sharp carving knife, resting one end of the bow on my belly, using as a fulcrum, and I make sure the thing is shaped correctly, make sure it bends the way it's supposed to. I sit in the little green glen, back resting against the rough bark behind me, legs stretched out straight in front of me, carving away. The wood shavings curl and fall across my belly and my lap. I inhale deeply and smile both at the pleasant smell and the little twitch of movement. Eventually, when the mockingjays pause and the child gets restless, I start singing, still carving in long, curved strokes. The mockingjays join in. When they know the song, they warble harmonies with me. I stay until the baby is clearly asleep. It is so much more difficult already to climb. Bu the child does so love the trees and the height and the birds. So I stay, and willingly climb both ways. I may start wearing that strange belt I wore with Iris sooner just to make it easier to get up in the trees. When I'm here, the child is just as serene as the green whisper of the trees.

In a few days, spending the majority of them here in this little glen, I finish the bow. It has taken me months. Crafting my own bows has never been something that came particularly easily to me. It is tedious work with no clear method and a lot of chances to mess up. But I finally stand along the branch I've been sitting on, hook my leg around the bow and bear down on it. It bends and I quickly hook the other end of the string on the opposite end. I test it. It snaps back when I release the string with a satisfying twang. It works. It's just slightly too big for her now, but she'll still be able to practice with it and she'll grow into it. The small arrows I craft for her don't take very long. I hide the finished bow and accompanying quiver of arrows alongside mine in the hollow tree. Her birthday is in just a few days. I pick my way out of the woods and head home, and give Peeta a pleased, conspiratorial look when I get home. He grins over the blueberries he's already preparing. Iris tries to work on what small, simple homework she has with about as much success as usual. Which means she can hardly focus on it and ends up flitting about between me, Peeta, and my mother. We each gently remind her of her work and she darts back to it for a few minutes at a time.

Her fifth birthday is a sunny one, a little warmer than it was the day she was born. Before I wake her, I stand and run my fingers through her hair. She looks so very different. Her braid has true length to it now, and the wave in it is more obvious. The tiny arms and legs are gangly ones instead of short, chubby infant ones. The planes of her face are more defined; I can see clearer traces of myself and Peeta there. But many things are the same. She still sleeps with one arm thrown over her head, her eyelashes still flutter the same way in sleep. When she opens her groggy eyes, they're still as blue. She still takes a while to fully come to, and it still takes Peeta and me a strong combined effort to get her down the stairs. She's still ecstatic over the blueberry cake, still destroys it with as much abandon at five as she did at one. The only difference is I think she manages to get more of it on her shirt now than she did when she was an infant. And Peeta still sighs a long-suffering sigh and patiently goes off to get a clean shirt while I scrub her down for the second time today until she glows pink.

This year, though, my mother is here to wish her a happy birthday. Iris's blue eyes twinkle and she pipes a grateful and excited thank you to my mother. My mother just smiles softly down at her. I think she's more disbelieving that my daughter is already five than I am. Before she leaves for the doctor's office, she gives Iris her birthday present. It is an enormous shell, the sort that you put up to your ear and hear the strange, disembodied rushing in it. It's clearly a token my mother found in District 4. My mother has polished it clean and glossy so its colorful, spiral pattern shows. Iris is enamored with the rushing sound in the shell. She always has loved water.

As always, we take her outside to her lake, which I once called my father's lake, and then my lake. But somehow over time it's become hers in my mind. Peeta carts paint out with him. We're both grateful that she's old enough to be trusted with real paint. Not that I'd put it past her to be just as enamored with those edible paints now as she was when she was barely a year old. Peeta's present to her is a set of fine, fairly expensive brushes like the ones he uses. I know he's saved for a few months for them. With the frequency with which she paints with him, it makes sense. Even if her painting is clumsy now, she's learning at a rapid rate.

"You might as well learn with the right tools," Peeta smiles softly at her, and then more softly, with a strange combination of happiness and melancholy, at me as she hops up and down, elated. I can't help but smile the same smile. These are the sorts of things we never had as children. We couldn't have spent much time with either of our parents, weren't allowed to devote time to anything as "frivolous" (as Effie would've put it) as any of this, would never have been able to afford small luxuries like paintbrushes. It is a relief to watch her clear, untroubled eyes as I rest an arm haphazardly across my belly and know that, unless something very unlikely and unexpected happens in the future, neither of them will ever have to live like we did. It is the sort of thing I would never have thought possible when I was her age. I know we will have to tell her some day. She already knows enough to know we were not well-to-do. But I can weather that if I know that she won't have to deal with any of it. As long as it doesn't happen to her, I'm happy.

A few hours later, while Iris is splashing about in the shallows with Peeta, I catch his eye and slink off towards the hollow tree. He nods as I disappear into the foliage. I shoulder my own bow and quiver, and gather the new, smaller one in my arms. I weave my way back towards her lake, my progress a little slower than normal. It's starting to get difficult to see where my feet are.

I stand for a while before Iris notices I'm back. I just stand, watching her grin as she tries to splash Peeta and he patiently and happily lets her. She darts towards me, dripping wet. And she comes to a complete halt when she notices that I'm holding a small second bow.

"Is that...is that for-"

"Yeah, it's for you, little duck."

She gasps and is possibly the quietest and most still I've ever seen her before she launches herself at me. I let out a strained, involuntary huff when she lands right on my belly with every bit of force her small body can muster. Thankfully, it's not enough to do any real damage. Just to knock the wind out of me a little.

"Thank you, Mama!" she squeals in my ear and I laugh a little.

"I told you I'd teach you soon. I just had to make sure you had your own bow."

"How do I do it?! Tell me what to do!"

"Whoa, slow down, I'm getting there. Mama isn't moving as fast lately," I shake my head as I follow Iris the few yards she's run, towards a thicket of trees. "Okay, first, don't carry your arrows like that. They'll go everywhere and you want your hands free for your bow. Hold still," I tell her as I fasten the buckle of the quiver so that the strap moves diagonally across her front, the way mine does. "There. First rule: Keep track of your arrows. Don't drop any of them. When you shoot something, once you know you've brought it down, make sure you go get the arrow back like Mama does, okay? That big bow isn't any good if you lose all your arrows."

Iris nods gravely at me. I know it'll take a while before she truly heeds my advice.

"Okay, put this on, too," I take her small wrist on her left hand and slip a tiny armguard around her.

"What's it for?"

"When you shoot a bow, a lot of times the string will hit that arm. And it can snap you pretty hard. That's an arm guard to make sure it doesn't do that. You need this too," I slip an equally small shooting glove on her tiny fingers.

"Why does it only have three fingers?"

"Because it's a shooting glove. You remember the one I wear?"

"Yeah! It looks like that one!"

"It's the same one, just smaller."

"What do I need it for?"

"It makes it easier to release the string when you shoot.

"Oh. So do I get to shoot now?"

I shake my head, grinning. Peeta has ambled over and watches the exchange from a short distance, smiling softly, eyes twinkling.

"Yes, little duck, you get to shoot now. Now watch me do it once and then we'll see about your shooting one. Watch how I stand and how I hold the bow and everything, okay?"

Iris nods eagerly. I slip an arrow out of the quiver at my back, nock it, take aim at a skinny pine ahead, feet planted. I release it and it rockets forward, hitting my mark.

"Okay, now you. Stand like that. Yes, like that. Then nock the arrow. It'll go right like that on the string. Straighten out your arm. Yes. Now, you always pull it back so the string is right here along your nose and your mouth. Three fingers on the string, put the fletching between these two. Okay, when you let it go, don't move at first. Then just follow though with it, let the bow drop a little once you've shot. It'll do it naturally. Okay. Go ahead."

Iris doesn't hit the tree on her first try. I knew she wouldn't. It took me years to hone my own skills. But that's not what I notice now. I just stare as she lets the arrow fly and Peeta does too. He puts a hand over his mouth and shakes his head. I know what he's thinking because I'm thinking the same. Her eyes are clearly blue and not gray, she's got a wave in her dark hair that I don't, her skin does have something of the olive cast that mine does, but it's a good bit lighter. And it doesn't matter at all. Because when she draws the bow back, she cocks her head and scowls just so, her single, dark braid errantly snaking over her shoulder, and she looks just like me. Peeta whispers a strangled, "She's just like you." And she is. She even gives the same quiet huff I used to when I still missed. It is something I've never experienced. Prim was so very different from me. She would've looked so small and uncomfortable holding that bow. She would've accepted defeat quietly, with that sheepish smile and small shrug, as if apologizing that she hadn't lived up to your expectations. It is both jarring and wonderful to watch Iris grit her tiny teeth, clutching the bow, white-knuckled, scowling, jaw set. She'll keep trying until she manages to hit something. I snort, amused, and cross the short distance to kneel beside her.

"I didn't hit it," she huffs, crossing her arms in a gesture that's more reminiscent of Peeta than me.

"I didn't hit anything my first time either," I shake my head gravely.

"You're just telling me that, Mama."

I can't help but laugh out loud now.

"I'm not just telling you that, I really didn't hit anything! I actually didn't even manage to get the arrow to go anywhere at all. It fell out of the bow and landed right in front of me."

Iris's small, dark brows like mine curl down in a deeper scowl, skeptical.

"Look, come here, try this," I correct her hold on the bow. Her fingers are still a little small to curl the way they need to around the arrow and the bowstring, but the sooner she makes the basics habit, the sooner she'll learn to shoot successfully. I only let Iris practice for a certain amount of time because I know if I don't monitor her, she'll spend the rest of her birthday angrily stomping into the brush to find the arrow that won't hit its mark. She fusses at me a little when I gently pry the bow from her small, determined fingers. But just as she did when she was small, she bounces back quickly. Within a few minutes, she's dashed back into the water, failure forgotten. She splashes about on her own for a little while as I doze on Peeta's shoulder. He keeps his hand resting lightly on my belly. Once I wake up just long enough to hear a bird tittering and feel a little movement. I hear Peeta chuckle, "Felt that one." I smile back a little, listening to Iris giggle somewhere to my right. Later, when I'm fully awake, Peeta smiles and notes, "It really does kick a lot when there's music doesn't it?"

I nod. "Every time I sing, every time the birds do." He nods.

"It's been doing it the whole time you've been asleep."

"You can feel it now?" I ask, stretching a little.

"Yes. Barely, but yes."

"I'm never sure. At first it's too soft."

"This one doesn't kick the same."

"This one's not Iris."

Peeta giggles and I smile at the sound.

"True. Maybe this one will be a little calmer."

"I think so. But who knows? Its big sister is Iris."

"And you're its mother," Peeta teases, poking me lightly in the side.

I roll my eyes at him and smile a little wider.

"It makes me wonder," he tells me, staring out in the direction Iris is paddling in.

"What does?"

"What we'll see here five years from now."

I smile a little at him. He's so much brighter than he was five years ago. He smiles more. He paints in more colorful, happier strokes and scenes; not the dark, muted ones he used to. All of this was for him in the first place and it's all worked out exactly how I had hoped it was. Peeta is truly happy; he has been ever since she was born and he hadn't been for so long. Being with me got him closer to it, but it was her that really did it. What was unexpected is what she did to me. I never expected to love Iris like I do. I had her because Peeta wanted her so badly. I never thought that I'd want her as badly as he. And I wonder as Peeta stares down at my distended belly what this child will do to turn our lives as upside down as Iris did. I know it will, in its own way. I wonder what we'll be doing on this one's birthday five years from now, how Peeta will smile. Iris brought laughter and enthusiasm and a brightness that glints and glitters just like the sun does on her lake that she paddles in right now. In five years, I wonder what this child will have brought us.

"I don't know," I admit, shrugging. "I guess we'll have to wait and see."

Peeta nods and grins and rests his chin on my shoulder. I rest my cheek flush against his and sigh, glad to see that bright grin on his face.

After a bit, Iris runs out of the lake, fingers and toes wrinkled from being in the water for so long, and flops down beside Peeta and me. She falls asleep quickly, sprawled out on the long grass that grows all around us, right between me and Peeta. Peeta gathers her up and follows me as I lead them out of the woods, a hand braced under my belly as I tramp through the brush. We find my mother at home when we return, sitting, fidgeting at the table. Peeta looks between us knowingly and takes Iris upstairs to put her to bed.

"Mom, what is it?"

"Well, it's been a few weeks since Florian was born. Sages says she thinks she'll be alright on her own now. Of course, I think she should probably have some help for a little longer, but she won't have it."

"She never will," I shake my head. "You won't convince her otherwise, I'll tell you that right now."

"Oh, I know. She took care of almost everyone that came along today. I was more or less watching to make sure she could handle it. And she just did everything with that baby strapped to her front just like I used to do with you. I wasn't sure it was a good idea, but she just waved me off and kept going."

I bite the inside of my cheek. I know she must've picked that up, at least in part, from me, watching me stomp out of the woods, dragging a game bag on my shoulder and Iris bundled up in front of me. She'll bustle about her practice diagnosing people and setting bones and reading charts and shooing people away with bottles of medicine with Florian right there the whole time.

"But, since she says she's alright on her own, I suppose I have to go back to District 4 soon," she ventures quietly.

I nod quietly, staring into the fire. I don't know what I expected. My mother was here to take care of Sage. Sage doesn't need it anymore. She can't stay forever. But I realize in this moment that I don't want her to leave. Not yet, anyway. I've just gotten her back. And she's done exactly as she promised. She's tried to help me and understand me, as much as she's capable. She has helped. I don't want to lose the sure, healing hands and the soothing calm of my mother that I haven't had since I was small. I realize that I need it right now. I need her right now. I'll need her help when this baby's kicks, even the playful ones, are so strong that they're unbearable. I'll need her when I can hardly fit though the hallways of my house again. I'll need her when I'm so tired from trying to keep my head above water. I swallow hard and look at her. She's eyeing the table, still wringing her hands a little.

"Well, I was thinking. Only if you want to, but if you wanted to stay until after the baby's born-"

My mother's head snaps up.

"You'd be welcome to," I continue. "But if you need to go back home, I understand. Either one."

"You'd let me stay?"

I pause.

"Yes."

"I don't want to put undue stress on you and Peeta, though."

"You wouldn't be. It's been nice. Having you here. It helps. I feel better, at least."

Then my mother smiles a wide grin I haven't seen on her since I was probably three.

"You actually want me here?" she chokes, disbelieving.

"Yes. I want you to stay."

"You're...you're not angry with me anymore?"

I try to find the anger in my chest and my throat. I search for the fiery ire there. I come up empty-handed.

"No, I guess I'm not," I almost whisper, more surprised than she is.

My mother puts a hand over her mouth and I watch tears start making winding, glittering paths down the planes of her face.

"Mom, don't cry-" I venture, floundering a little. She shakes her head and when she pulls her hand away from her mouth, she's smiling.

"That's all I've wanted to hear from you since you were eleven," she whispers.

"Well, you're hearing it now."

She nods, still grinning.

"So are you going to stay?" I ask quietly. "You don't have to."

She shakes her head wildly.

"No I want to stay. I always thought I'd be bringing my childrens' babies into the world. I lost Prim, and then I missed your first one. I'm not passing up the chance this time around."

I can't help but laugh freely.

"Well, you'll be helping me with this one. Just talk to Sage a little before the time comes. She'll brief you on the the things to watch out with with me. I'm not the easiest person to deal with-"

My mother waves me off.

"You never have been. I raised you, child, I know how you work. Plus, it seems like you and Sage react similarly to things. If I can handle her, I can probably handle you."

I nod, the smile from my laughing settling gently on my face. My mother smiles back before shooing me off.

"Well, don't leave Peeta to put that child to bed by himself. If I know her, she's woken up and you don't want to leave him to handle it on his own."

I nod once, and make my way slowly up the stairs. I find Peeta sitting patiently on the edge of Iris's bed, waiting for me. She's still asleep by some miracle. I sit next to him.

"Did you work things out with your mother?"

"Yes. I told her she could stay until the baby's born. Was that alright?" I double back, realizing I haven't asked Peeta about it.

"Of course. I could use the help with you," he jokes, but as always, the jab has no malice in it.

"I'm sure," I agree, fully aware of how much I am to handle. "I don't know how you dealt with me last time."

"Dealt with you?" he asks before shaking his head. "It's not dealing with you if I'm glad to do it."

I smile. I want to ask him why in the world he loves me. I'm stiff and ill-tempered at best and he's much gentler a soul than me. But I know even if he tried to explain, I'd never understand it. So instead, I kiss him gently and he smiles that bright, sweet grin of his and I think in this moment that, maybe, with my mother back, with Iris turning my life upside down the way she does, and with Peeta steadfastly beside me as he always been, I might be truly happy.

_**Hope you all enjoyed! As always, drop by and tell me your thoughts about the chapter in a review! And I'll try to get the next chapter out as soon as I can. Finals are coming up, so it may be a few weeks, but it'll be up here eventually. Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	19. Chapter 19

_**Hi all! Sorry I've been gone for such a long while! Between holidays, researching for my thesis, and doing the long distance relationship dance, life is good but almost always hectic lately. But I haven't forgotten this story. As I've said, I'm still writing it so don't worry. I may disappear for a month between chapters, but you can rest assured that another one will pop up eventually. It'll just have to pop up whenever I have a quiet, sane moment enough to write. :) Anyway, I'll let ya'll get reading. Hope you enjoy!**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**_

"Katniss, we're terrible parents."

I look up from the half-skinned squirrel propped on my growing belly.

"Well, I've never thought we were particularly great. But terrible? What's the problem?"

"You only have three months left, right?"

"Yes," I answer warily.

"Where is this child sleeping? Are any of Iris's old baby clothes worth re-using? Katniss, we've done it again. This baby's coming in three months and we haven't done anything."

My knife pauses.

"Dammit."

We neglected to prepare the house for a baby when Iris came until around four months before she was born. We've stretched it this time to three. I do not know why Peeta and I are particularly forgetful insofar as preparing for new babies, but we tend to neglect that important aspect of things until very late.

"Yeah, we're terrible," I continue, sighing. "Sorry, kid," I tell my stomach.

"So should we put the new baby in Iris's room and put her down the hall? Or just put the new baby in a new room?" Peeta asks worriedly.

"Hm. I'd like to have the baby closer, just in case. But getting Iris to move rooms isn't going to be fun," I grumble. Iris adores her room. I'm not wholly certain we'll even be able to placate her enough to move her down the hall.

"She just likes the mural on the wall, I think. I could re-do it if she wanted. And let her help."

"She might handle it better if she knows she'll be painting with you," I chuckle.

"What should we paint on the wall in the nursery this time?"

"Peeta, you don't have to do another whole painting. The one that's there is beautiful."

"But that one was for Iris. That's why it has the lake on it. This one likes different things, right?"

"Seems to. There's this little glen where all the birds nest that it seems to really like. I'll sit high in one of the trees and it seems like the kid's really happy."

"I want to see it sometime, if it likes it so much."

"You can come out there with me whenever you want, you know that. I just know it's not quite your cup of tea, the woods," I smirk. "But I could use the extra boost to get up the tree, if you were there. It's getting very hard to climb."

"Katniss. You're six months pregnant and you're climbing?"

"Yes."

Peeta just sighs and nods, as if he's telling himself he shouldn't be surprised.

"Katniss, please be careful," my mother interjects, having heard the exchange. "No premature labor."

"I'll be fine, mom."

"Sure you will," she nods, skeptical. Peeta smiles at her sympathetically, commiserating.

"Iris?" Peeta calls. She's disappeared under the table, ostensibly to do the simple homework she's got. In reality, we know she's likely playing some sort of game under there, neglecting her homework. Iris is not the best student. She's imminently intelligent, and understands the concepts, she's just very easily distracted. It takes a lot of reminding from us to keep her on task. I was similar in school, so I sympathize with her.

"Yes Daddy?" she pipes, clambering out from under the table.

"Come here, we need to ask you something."

"Okay!"

Iris scampers over and jumps up on my lap, settling comfortably on one side of my distended belly, arm slung over it, content to rest beside the dead, half-skinned squirrel.

"Iris, in the next couple of weeks we have to do a lot of things around here to make sure we're ready to bring the baby home in a few months," Peeta begins to explain, quietly and patiently. "One of the things we have to do is make sure the baby has its own room. Because it'll be so small, we need to be able to be very close to it. Do you think you could do us a favor?" he asks very quietly, almost conspiratorially. Iris leans in.

"What do you want me to do?" she whispers curiously.

"Well, I don't know if you feel up to it. You may not be..."

"Daddy, what?" she demands, voice shrill and annoyed at being led on.

"Iris, don't talk to your daddy like that, you know better," I admonish, voice like steel as it always is when I'm reprimanding her. She wilts and mutters a muffled "Yes ma'am. Sorry, Daddy."

"Apology accepted. Anyway, Iris, I want to know," Peeta pauses dramatically. "Do you think you're a big enough girl to get a bigger, new room down the hall?"

Iris mulls it over, scowling a bit.

"Which room?"

"Whichever one you want, I suppose," Peeta answers.

Iris pauses further.

"What about the wall? My lake is on my wall," she pouts.

"Ah, yes, that is a problem isn't it?" Peeta nods.

"Yes it is," Iris affirms.

"What do you think we should do about it?"

"Stay in the room I have."

"Hm. We could do that. But I think I might have a better idea."

"Like what?"

"What if you and I re-painted it on the wall of your new room?"

Iris's blue eyes light up.

"I could help?"

"Yes. I think that's a good idea, don't you?"

"Yes! Can we paint whatever we want?"

"Sure. What were you thinking of?"

"Grandma showed me a picture of District 4 and it has the ocean in it!"

I grin and think to myself that I need to take her back there now when she'll remember it. Iris is fascinated with water. She'd love the warm, swaying oceans of District 4.

"Is that what you want on the wall?" Peeta asks patiently.

"I think so. The lake is very pretty, but so is the ocean."

"It is indeed. Well, if that's what you want, pick a room and we'll start painting it."

"Yay! Mama, we're painting the ocean on my room!" she turns to me, still too young to realize that I don't need a recap.

"Really? That sounds very pretty. Are you and Daddy going to paint it?" I ask, humoring her, speaking in my quiet, muted manner, still bent over the squirrel with my knife.

"Yes! Mama have you ever seen the ocean?"

"I have. More than once."

"Mama, have you seen everything?"

I chuckle.

"Not everything, little duck. But a lot of things."

"Have you ever seen the Capitol? None of my friends or their parents ever have."

I stiffen and lock eyes with Peeta. Questions like this one happen much more often as Iris moves up in school. They never directly relate to the Games, but they always skirt uncomfortably close. For now, we are able to omit information. But we know the day that we aren't able to anymore is getting closer.

"Yes, I went to the Capitol. Long ago. I'm sure it's very different now."

"Wow! No one has been to the Capitol! Daddy, did you go there with Mama?"

Peeta keeps his composure. The only sign I see of his discomfort is a stiffness in his shoulders. Her questions are frighteningly and innocently insightful.

"Yes, I did go with your mama."

"Did you always go everywhere together?"

"Not always," Peeta calmly explains. "But after the first time we left District 12, we did go everywhere together."

"What was your favorite place?"

"Here. District 12," I answer quietly.

Iris frowns, confused. She's expected me to say some far away District somewhere.

"What about you, Daddy?"

"District 12 too. Sorry if that's not very interesting," Peeta apologizes to Iris, smiling. Iris just nods pensively before running off under the table again, giggling. I sigh, relieved. It does not last long, though. I clench my teeth as the baby starts kicking harder than usual. It must sense that I'm stressed, just like Iris used to. When she sees me grimace, my mother wordlessly paces over and kneels in front of me, gently taking both of my hands between hers. Peeta brushes stray hairs off the back of my neck and puts the flat of his palm on my belly. Both of them are on auto-pilot at this point. With their help, I'm past the initial panic within a few minutes and they're able to let me cope with it on my own. Iris doesn't seem to think that anything is amiss. But then, to Iris I'm sure that reactions like this one, that are not commonplace in most households but are in hers, aren't anything out of the ordinary anyway. I wonder about the day that she will realize that her friends' parents don't suffer panic attacks and hallucinations on a daily basis. I clench my teeth harder.

The next day, while Iris is at school, I take Peeta to the little glen where the baby wriggles happily all the time. Peeta wants to see it so he can work on painting it on the wall. That and, as much as he dislikes tramping through the woods, I know he likes watching me out here. I am at my most relaxed and my most natural out here. I am eminently myself here in the trees, more than anywhere else. Peeta loves me. So naturally he enjoys watching me here, where I am the most like the Katniss he loves. Just like I like watching him paint on his canvases, or ice cakes, where he's the embodiment of the sunniness and sweetness that I love in Peeta. I understand the sentiment all too well.

Peeta boosts me up a little bit so I can get on the high branch I'm aiming for. I then help him up as best I can. Peeta doesn't seem to want to get in the tree, but I want him to see what it looks like from here. To be in the canopy, with the sun beating down on the roof of leaves so hard they gleam bright emerald. Once I have Peeta settled on the bough next to me, I tell him to look around. He gasps once he's gotten over his fear of heights. All the trees glow that radiant emerald green, and the birds flit about between the interlocking branches, particularly the mockingjays. I whistle the first few notes of the song I always sing to Iris and they jump in and finish it for me, harmonizing. It's a different arrangement every time. Sometimes they sing in rounds, sometimes in unison, sometimes in intricate runs, and sometimes in simple thirds as they do now.

"I've never been so high in the trees like this," Peeta murmurs, looking around in awe.

"I can't believe you've lived with me this long and never been up here."

"I'm afraid of heights," he shrugs sheepishly.

"I know. You've done very well today to come all the way up here."

"I can see why you like it, though," he grins. "It's...you. It all is, of course. Everything out here. This is just another part of it."

"What part of me is it then?" I joke, smirking a bit like I always do. I am not prepared for him to have a true answer.

"The part of you that sings. The innocent part of you. And the lake is the way you love because it's deep and wide. And the mountains are how strong and grounded you are, the trees are how you sway and bend and adapt to everything, and the flowers are how beautiful you are," he finishes quietly.

I sit in stunned silence. Only Peeta ever has or ever will have said things that are that beautiful to me in my life. And I marvel in this moment how he does so all the time. I look down a ways and see a clump of dandelions growing in a patch of grass beyond the tree line. I shake my head.

"No. The flowers are you."

Peeta's eyebrows raise.

"What?"

"You're wrong about the flowers. The flowers are the part of me that's you."

He pauses before he smiles and I can tell in the sheen across his eyes that it's affected him.

"You think so?"

"I know so," I smile back. He laughs a thick laugh.

Peeta starts painting Iris's new room with her a few days later. She carts in the picture of District 4 that my mother has given her. I watch Peeta sketch a very rough outline on the wall, so faint that I can't tell what it is. But Iris seems to understand quite well. I watch the picture appear in sections as the days go by. First, it's a smear of gray-blues and oranges. Then I come home one day to see Iris adding faint lines, with Peeta watching her, grinning. Another, Iris is given a wide paintbrush just like the one Peeta holds, and I watch as they blanket the other three walls in a very light sunset orange that is Peeta's favorite color and that I know is Iris's too. She's loved orange since she couldn't even sit up on her own. They copy the picture almost exactly. It's a view of the beach that sits outside my mother's house. But Peeta and Iris both give life to the scene that the photograph never can. I climb the stairs as fast as I can with my belly as big as it is the day Iris comes dashing downstairs to chirp, "Mama, we're done, come see!" And when I see it, I feel as if I'm there, just as I do in the other room. They've painted the sunset and it blends with the orange in the room. I saw a lot of similar images in buildings in District 4, and a few in the Capitol; scenes of the ocean at sunrise or sunset. But this one is not the same trite, generic image. It's too real. It's not painted to look perfect, because both Iris and Peeta have recognized that the ocean is not. It's too ever-changing. When I look at the wall in Iris's room, I can smell the salt in the air, can feel a strong and cool pre-rain wind, can hear the constant rush of the ocean. It's so very different from anything I would've ever picked to put on the wall of my own room, but I know that it is imminently Iris. She's already a curious, restless sort of soul. She has been since I saw her. As if she's reading my mind, Iris pipes up, "It's so pretty. I want to see it for real some day, Mama!"

Peeta and I both smile down at her.

"You will, little duck. Your grandmother lives there, it wouldn't be hard."

"How far is it?"

"A long way," Peeta smiles. "But you can get there on a train in not too much time."

"I want to see all the Districts like you and Mama did. Can I?"

"Well, if you go without us you'll have to wait until you're older. But you can do whatever you want, Iris," Peeta tells her. And as I place my hand on her shoulder, I smile, so glad that it's true. Iris really can do what she likes. She can take the same train I took through all the Districts and through the Capitol without being caged by it, by anyone. She is as free as the roaring ocean on her wall. She can wander as she likes, which we can all tell is already in her nature.

"I want to do that."

"Then you will," I tell her and I know it's true. And I am overwhelmingly glad that it is as I stand with Iris in her new room that is all curiosity and hope and future and possibility. Iris does not paint what she already knows; she paints what she doesn't and what she wants to understand. I kiss her dark, wavy head. My mother peers in after a few minutes and just smiles very softly when she sees what Iris has painted on the wall.

"Grandma, look! I painted the picture you gave me!"

"I see that. It's perfect."

"Does it really look like that?"

"Yes it does. It looks exactly like what I see every day."

"Mama says I can go there someday."

"You can. I think you'll go a lot of places, Iris," she smiles at her. Peeta and I smile too. We can all tell Iris is going places.

"Really?"

"Oh yes."

After Peeta and Iris are finished with her new room, he moves her bed into the room. But instead of placing all the old nursery furniture in there, he puts things in that suit her now. Things she'll be able to grow into. A little armchair rather than a rocking chair. A larger chest of drawers, made to hold more than small, soft baby clothes. A little bookshelf for Iris to place her paintings and the few books she loves on. She puts her favorite paintings there. One is an image of her lake. Another, her grandmother, smiling the timid smile that she always has. One is a messy depiction of Florian as he plays with someone's necklace, either Sage's or my mother's. The two most prominent at the top are depictions of Peeta and me each. Peeta's is painted in soft oranges and yellows. He's painting in the picture, looking down and smiling the gentle smile he wears when he looks at Iris. Mine is in grays and greens. It's a profile of me, clearly from Iris's vantage point when she clings to my back in the woods. I am not smiling, but it doesn't matter. I am clearly content in the picture. Iris already captures the spirit of moments the way Peeta does.

After Peeta has Iris's room settled, he starts on re-painting the nursery. I venture one more time that it's probably not wholly necessary for him to redo it, but he insists.

"This baby likes the trees. I painted the lake for Iris. It's only fair to paint the trees for this one."

I nod and don't argue any further and watch as Peeta primes the walls a stark white. I smile as I come home one day and see that the three walls that used to be butter yellow are now a very light, almost mint green. Like last time with Iris, I am getting to the point that I spend a lot more time here at home than in the woods. I cannot climb any longer, so I am grateful when I see Peeta penciling in the rough shape of trees on the remaining wall a few days later. Now I just go outside to sit at the base of the trees in the little glen. Sometimes I gather a few herbs, check some traps. But I have not yet experienced the gradual debilitation of pregnancy. Last time, I cracked my ankle; the loss of movement was sharp and definite. This time, I slowly lose my ability to move properly, slowly get louder and clumsier in the woods. But thanks to Peeta's gate and my intact ankle, I can still come out here without his having to cart me here. I do come here as often. This baby has been much calmer than Iris was, but it is still getting very big and its playful wriggles kicks are strong now. I sit out here so that the kicks are calmer. When I'm home, my mother holds my hand as I try not to grimace in front of Iris. So I am grateful the day I walk in to find the wall finished. I sigh and close my eyes and feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Because the baby's kicks calm as soon as I see it.

"Do you like it?"

"Peeta, do you really need to know the answer?" I laugh and ask in uncharacteristic softness. He merely smiles back. Peeta has painted just the canopy of the little glen that this baby loves so. The leaves on the wall gleam the same emerald, little rays of sunlight glitter through the few spaces in the tree cover. I can nearly see and feel the wind rustle through the boughs. And as I look closer, I see that the birds are there too. They're nestled in the crooks of the branches just as they are in the real glen. I can see their wings flutter and twitch. Can hear their song.

"It's perfect. Come here, feel what it's doing."

Peeta puts a warm palm on my belly and grins.

"It's moving just like it does outside!"

"Yes. We like it. Just in time too. You're getting really heavy, you know that, right?" I ask my stomach. I get a little twitch in response. Peeta feels it too and giggles.

"I'm just glad you're not as bad off this time as you were with Iris."

"Yes, it's not as bad. Just a lot more tiring and heavy this time."

"But you don't have much longer," Peeta beams, clearly so excited he can barely contain himself.

"No, I don't. Which means we'd better get a move on on anything else we need to do. Which means replacing baby clothes. Iris is rough on clothes."

"I know," Peeta grimaces. Iris has been ruining her clothes since she was born. There are obvious holes in most of her baby things. The next day, Peeta starts down the stairs with a large bag slung over his shoulder, bent on going to get a supply of baby clothes. As we come downstairs we find something sitting on the table. He stops in his tracks. And so do I. There's a little wealth of cloth resting in the middle of the table. Upon closer inspection, I find that it's a pile of tiny shirts, little trousers, and a few knitted hats. I can tell in the stitching, in the construction of it, in the knitting, that it's my mother's handiwork. She had to make a lot of our clothes growing up and I can see in what few idiosyncrasies I can find in the stitches that it's her. She's made at least four little outfits for the baby. Peeta is beside himself because they all match.

"Look, Katniss, they're full outfits. She even made socks!"

I can't help but laugh a little at how happy he is about socks.

"She did indeed. I think she knitted those. And the hats. I'm not completely sure. I can only mend clothes. I'm not so good at making them from scratch."

"You can make things out of leather. Shooting gloves and things. I bet you could make clothes if you wanted to."

"Those are different."

"Katniss, no they're not," Peeta laughs.

"They are. They don't require knitting. Can you really picture me with knitting needles and a ball of yarn at my feet?"

"No, I guess not. It's still not _that_ different though."

I just chuckle at him. My mother, after a few minutes, peeks around the corner. I just look at her and smile over the tiny green hat I'm inspecting. She grins back.

The next day, I finally have to put on the same belt I wore carrying Iris. This baby is calmer, but has gotten heavier faster. Even so, I am so far along it wouldn't matter if the baby was as light as Iris was. Any baby would be big. And of course, I'm even bigger. I can scarcely fit through doorways anymore, much to my entire family's amusement. My mother chuckles as I mutter to myself, staring down at my stomach as I inch through the doorway to the nursery. Peeta grins; sometimes he giggles. Mostly he just watches me waddle about, endlessly amused at how peeved I am about being so round and clumsy. Any snappish retorts I volley back are purposefully weak because I know Peeta is just excited. I also know that I do indeed look ridiculous. My small, wiry frame looks as if someone has glued a beachball to the front of it. It looks so out of place, to the point that even Iris cocks her head when she looks at me.

"Mama, you're really big."

"Why thank you, Iris," I mutter. She doesn't pick up on the sarcasm.

"You're welcome! You're as big as my door!"

"So I've heard. And I bet you think it's hilarious."

Iris breaks out in the same cackle that I make as soon as I suggest it.

"Yes! You walk like a duck now, Mama."

I sigh as Iris continues to cackle. But she's right. I waddle like a duckling now. Everyone in town grins the same way that Peeta does. They keep the teasing to a minimum, probably because I look so bad-tempered above my round stomach. But I sigh and ignore any teasing that I do suffer. I know that it's good natured. They tease because they're happy. That and they know it'll fluster me a little; they tease me just like I remember Finnick and Johanna doing. With that thought, I smile a little as I trudge through town with Peeta.

That night, Haymitch graces us with his presence for dinner, which is a rare occurrence. Lunch, yes, but he's normally far too inebriated for dinner. He has been cropping up a bit more lately, likely because my mother is home. They're not particularly close, but they've known each other since they were children. Haymitch would never admit it, but I suspect he's quite happy to have one of his old friends around. That and Haymitch still enjoys watching Iris. He still makes sarcastic remarks to her, which she still cackles at just as she cackled at him when she was tiny.

"Hey Iris, come here. Listen," he growls conspiratorially. She bounds over. I narrow my eyes at Haymitch, wary.

"Yeah, Uncle Haymitch?" she asks, eyes wide.

"I got a story to tell you," he confides.

"Haymitch," I growl, warning.

"See, always remember to watch your mother when she makes that face. You see it?"

"Yes, Uncle Haymitch. You say that a lot."

"Because your health depends on it. I ignored it once. That's where this scar came from," he points to the one on his face. I sigh because I did indeed give it to him, right after they broke me out of the Quarter Quell.

"Really?" Iris asks, incredulous.

"Yes. I was lucky she didn't shoot me.

"Mama wouldn't shoot me. Or Daddy. Just deers."

"Deer," Peeta gently corrects.

"And me?" Haymitch growls.

"Maybe," Iris concedes.

"Deer and me, that's comforting. Now, listen. Do you know how your mama and daddy met?"

"Haymitch, don't," Peeta admonishes, eyebrows quirking down, annoyed.

"I'm not going to say what you think-calm down, boy," Haymitch growls, taking a swig out of his bottle. I cut my eyes at Haymitch in a way that says I'll give him a scar to match the one he already has if he talks too much.

"Uncle Haymitch, you better be good now. Mama looks mad."

"She always looks mad. It's in her nature."

Iris looks at him skeptically as my mother giggles a little.

"Do you want to hear the story or not?" he growls, waggling his eyebrows.

"Yes!"

"Okay. Did you know your daddy first told your mama he liked her by throwing a loaf of bread at her head?"

"Two loaves. And it wasn't at my head." I correct him as I huff.

Iris cackles. Peeta gives a long-suffering sigh and shakes his head. We know Haymitch likely won't reveal the circumstances of it. Not if he values his life. But he'll make telling Iris the story as annoying for us as possible.

"Really?!"

"Yes. It was burnt too. Couldn't even throw decent bread at her."

"Daddy, is that true?" Iris cackles, eyes twinkling. Peeta shakes his head.

"Unfortunately. Although your Uncle Haymitch has exaggerated a few things, Iris," Peeta purses his lips.

"It doesn't sound that exaggerated to me," my mother giggles in a rare fit of mischievousness.

"Daddy, why didn't you just say hi to her?"

Now I start laughing a little. Poor Peeta. He couldn't pluck up the courage to even talk to me until we were slated to try and kill each other and Iris, with Haymitch's help, is dredging it up. Peeta turns a little red and shrugs.

"I...I don't know. I didn't think she even knew who I was."

"But you did, didn't you, Mama?"

"Yes I did. Especially after he threw bread at me," I chuckle.

"Really? After the bread?" Iris titters. My mother smiles at us, and then at Iris.

"Yes. Your daddy went to a lot of trouble to give it to me. Remember that we didn't have as much as you when we were young, Iris. It was a gift and he gave it to me the only way he could. It was very sweet and your Uncle Haymitch is leaving that part out," I shoot a look at Haymitch.

"Aw, Daddy that was so nice!"

"It was. I'm glad you threw bread at my head," I smile at him, laughing a little. Peeta grins that sweet, sunny grin of his and giggles.

"Me too." He leans forward to kiss me. He can scarcely get to me with my enormous belly in the way, but he does manage to get his arms most of the way around me eventually, and kisses me warmly. Iris gives us a vehement, "Ewww!" in the background.

"I know, kid. Just look away, that's what I do," Haymitch growls. Peeta and I ignore them both. Although, as always, Haymitch makes it difficult to ignore him for too long.

"You know you're absolutely enormous. Look at that, the boy can't even really get to you. When're you gonna pop, sweetheart?" he gives a gravelly chortle.

"How eloquent, Haymitch," Peeta rolls his eyes before turning to me. "Don't kill him, you'll regret it in the morning."

"Are you sure?"

"She's got a week," my mother supplies. "That's the official due date. But that baby's heavy, Katniss, you might go into labor before then."

I sigh. "I hope so."

I do not cope with pregnancy very well. I'm ready for it to be over.

"You're not making poor Sage suffer you this time around, are you?" Haymitch snorts.

"No, I'm gladly 'suffering' her," my mother interjects. "We'll keep her up here unless something goes wrong. She'll be fine in the house with me."

"Oh joy, so I get to hear you hollering from my house," he takes another swig from his bottle. In reality we know that Haymitch's house is just far enough across from mine that anything he hears will be minimal. But I can't help but volley back a dig at him.

"Yes. And if you don't watch it, you'll get more than hollering from me. That bow shoots far."

"So what're you doing with the kid when you finally do pop?" Haymitch nods at Iris, who sits happily on his lap. Eventually he'll get too drunk to hold her, but for now they're both happy so we let it go. I look over at Peeta. Haymitch has a point. Iris probably shouldn't be around when I'm in labor. She won't understand that I'm not actually dying. It would scare her. I know that from time to time Peeta and I already scare her a little with what she knows of our past. I need to make sure I don't frighten her any more than I already do. I remember being rushed over to the Hawthornes' when my mother had Prim. They brought me in after. But where do I take Iris?

"Well, she probably shouldn't stay with me," Haymitch growls. "My house isn't good for her."

"I can't stay at your house, Uncle Haymitch?" Iris looks at him a little sadly.

"No, sweetheart. Not because you're not wonderful. Uncle Haymitch doesn't take good enough care of his house. But you can come visit my geese anytime you want, you know that," Haymitch growls. I grin to myself. Haymitch doesn't want to admit it, but he has a soft spot where Iris is concerned.

"Oh. Okay," Iris nods once.

"Sage can't take her, she's got Florian and her practice to handle," Peeta murmurs.

"Some of the Hawthornes still live here, right?" my mother suggests.

"Yes. But I'm not sure Rory wants to add another five year old to the mix for a day. He's already got a lot on his hands. We could see, I suppose," I scowl lightly, thinking.

Haymitch huffs and grumbles to himself for a moment.

"I guess...well I guess I could try to clean up. So she could stay with me. I'm so close to you both and it doesn't look like anyone else has room."

We all freeze.

"You'd do that?" Peeta asks, standing stock still. Shock is written in his arched eyebrows and wide eyes. My mother has a matching expression. In the entire time that all of us have known Haymitch, he's almost never changed any of his habits for anyone. It'll be a lot of work to clean up his disaster of a house.

"Are you sure you can in that time?" my mother asks. "She doesn't have very long."

"I've survived worse," he scowls and we quiet. "Do you want me to help or not?"

"If you're willing, yes," Peeta smiles. "I'll help you if you need it."

"Boy, I've told you before I don't need your help. I can handle it. But if you want, when I'm done, you can make sure it's to your satisfaction," he sneers, but there's little anger in it. He means it.

"Thank you, Haymitch," I venture.

"Just, while she's there-" Peeta's gaze flicks to eye Haymitch's bottle.

"I'm not an idiot, Mellark, I know more about children than you do. She'll be fine."

"Okay," I nod, trusting that she will be. Haymitch knows what would happen if she weren't.

"Where am I going?" Iris asks, concerned. "Do I have to leave?"

"Oh, no, little duck." I walk over and kiss her head. "We're just trying to find somewhere for you to play when Mama has this baby. We'll have a lot going on and it'll be very boring for a little girl. It wouldn't be fun for you to stay here."

"So your Uncle Haymitch has offered to clean up his house just for you. Wasn't that sweet?" Peeta grins at her. Haymitch is clearly chafing under the sentimentality of the statement. My mother picks up on it and grins.

"It was so sweet, why don't you tell Uncle Haymitch how sweet it was?" she croons. Haymitch glares daggers at her over Iris's head.

"Thank you, Uncle Haymitch!" Iris grins and puts her arms around his neck. Haymitch growls a quiet, "Sure, sweetheart," and we know that, for once, the use of the nickname is genuine.

"Just clean up that house fast, I don't know how long she's going to last," my mother warns, looking me up and down.

"Mama, are we bringing the baby home soon?"

"We should be, little duck."

"How long?"

"In a week. Maybe less."

Iris grins gleefully.

"Are you excited, Iris?" Peeta asks, although we all know the answer already.

"Yes! I want to see the baby!"

"You will soon," my mother assures her.

"Good! I'm excited!" she reiterates.

"Me too, Iris," she smiles. Peeta still stands with an arm slung around me as best he can. He leans over and murmurs in my ear.

"Well everyone else is excited. But are you okay?" he eyes me worriedly. He knows this baby caught me off guard. And while I've had the full nine months to get used to the idea, it was still all unplanned. I mull it over for a moment before nodding one curt nod.

"Yes." I keep nodding. "Maybe more than okay."

"What?" Peeta asks, confused. I pause once more.

"I think I'm actually excited too."

Peeta doesn't react immediately. I'm rarely excited about anything. Content, yes. Happy maybe. But excitement is a rare emotion for me, especially in this situation. Even now as I tell him that I'm excited, my expression is still relatively blank. Last time with Iris I was tired, sick, and terrified about bringing her home. I'm sure Peeta suspected that I felt the same this time. But I don't. Because I've already brought one baby home and she's been the best thing that's happened to me since Prim was born. She scares me with how important she is to me. If I love her this much, if she's been this good for all of us, how can I be anything but a little excited now?

"Really?" Peeta nearly chokes. It's nearly his dream come true. For me to be a tenth as excited as he is about this baby.

"Really," I smile quietly with a nod. The grin that breaks out on Peeta's face looks as if it'll crack his face in two.

"I'm so glad. I was so worried that you were upset. Because it was all unplanned and everything-"

"No, you can really be excited this time. Because I am too," I cut Peeta off before he can spiral further into his worrying.

Peeta's eyes shine over his grin. He takes my hands and bounces them up and down a little in his excitement.

"Katniss, we're bringing home a baby next week," he near-whispers. I laugh my customary cackle.

"Yes," I tell him as I let him bounce up and down a little, my hands still laced with his. For once Peeta and I do not feel disparate emotions. It is an immense relief to be able to take joy in the moment. I only wish I had had the capacity to be this excited about Iris. But I'm happy now so I put past worries out of my mind as best I can. And as Peeta leans down to kiss my belly and the baby wriggles happily I marvel how, for the first time in years, maybe for the first time in my life, my anticipation isn't fueled by fear. It's fueled by joy. I run my hand through Peeta's curls as he rests his cheek on my belly and in this moment I gladly realize that I cannot wait to meet my new baby.

_**Hope you all enjoyed! I should have another chapter up fairly soon (I swear I mean it this time) so keep a look out! As always, I'd love it if you'd pop by and leave a review to tell me what you thought! Thanks for reading! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	20. Chapter 20

_**Hi all! So I didn't disappear for as long this time! Can't guarantee it'll always be that quick a turnaround, but this time it is. Hope you all enjoy!**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing as usual.**_

"Mama, when are you bringing home the baby?" Iris asks for the third time today. Ever since I told her we'd be bringing the baby home in the next week, she's asked at least five times a day. I patiently answer.

"When the baby comes, Iris. Babies come when they want and you can't really tell when they'll decide it's time to come out. You came early, did you know that?"

"I did?"

"Yes. Probably because you have so much energy. You couldn't wait any longer," I smile at her and tickle her side. She squeals happily and wriggles. I sit with her out here in the little glen at the base of a tree. Iris is out of school for the summer and is elated to be back in the woods with me every day. She's an immense help with how slow I am now, too. She can check some of the traps that I can't bend down to check anymore.

"What are you going to name it?"

"Well, we don't know yet. Daddy and I think it's better to meet the baby before we name it. We did the same with you to make sure the name fit."

Iris nods in understanding.

"Come on, little duck, let's head back home. It'll take Mama a while and we don't want to stay out here too long."

"Okay. Why are you so slow now, Mama?"

"Well, babies are heavy, especially when you're carrying one in your belly. It's not always easy and it makes you slow and a little clumsy. And you can't see your feet either."

Iris giggles; she's endlessly amused with how round I am.

"There you go laughing at how big your Mama is. You watch it. When you're all grown up, if you have your own baby, Mama's going to get back at you for it," I tease, tickling her once more. She cackles.

"No you won't!"

"Oh yes I will. I'll say the same things you've been saying to me. 'Iris, you're as big as your door! Iris, you look like a roly poly now, and you're so slow!'" I grin.

Iris just continues to cackle as I tease her. It takes us twice as long as normal to get into town with the small haul we have. We mostly have herbs, a few errant strawberries, and the small game we gathered from my traps. In a few weeks, I'll be able to start hunting again. As soon as I have this baby. The trouble is, this baby seems to want to stick around a little longer than it should. A few people notice as I waddle through the main thoroughfare of District 12.

"Katniss, you alright? Weren't you due a few days ago?"

"This one's a slow one. Seems pretty big too."

"Aw, Katniss, you've got a shy baby on your hands. Doesn't want to come out."

And it's true. I was indeed due a few days ago. So far, there's no sign of my going into labor. Sage narrows her eyes at me as we stop by her place. Florian has progressed from playing with her necklace to pulling the few wisps of hair that escape her bun. She barely winces, clearly used to it.

"Katniss, you've overdue. Way overdue. That baby's big. What's your mother been saying about that?"

I sigh. My mother hasn't left me alone ever since I passed my due date. She fusses over me constantly, and Sage does so whenever she gets the chance.

"The same thing you are. And she says that she'll induce me if it goes too long."

"For your sake I hope not. But that baby doesn't seem to be budging," she says as Florian babbles and rocks a little bit, grinning with pink gums. He clearly loves listening to her.

I sigh.

"No. This one seems to want to stay."

"Best of luck," Sage chuckles a little. "Florian, stop," she gently pries his hands away and deters him from pulling her hair any harder. He pouts in an infant grimace a little but otherwise minds.

"Thanks. I've got to go check on Haymitch. He's cleaning his house so he can take care of Iris when this kid finally decides to come out," I huff, exhausted.

"Best of luck with that too," Sage expresses ominously.

"Thanks," I grumble as I trudge away back towards home. I leave Iris with Peeta for a few minutes as I go to check Haymitch's progress. I know Peeta has been checking all week, but I want to see it for myself. I give two sharp raps on the door, as usual. Haymitch takes a while to lumber to the door. When I see him, he looks a little shaken. He's clearly not stopped drinking entirely, but he seems to have been trying to cut back a little for when Iris comes.

"Come to see if I'm presentable, huh? And good god you're enormous. You sure you don't have two in there, sweetheart?" he growls.

"Yes, I'm sure. I'm just overdue. By a lot," I snap.

"Clearly. Well, get in here and let's get this over with."

I brace myself for the smell to assault me. But it doesn't. There are a few traces of the old stench of Haymitch's house, but they've been blessedly masked with something floral. I'm guessing that that's Peeta's doing as I look around warily. The clutter is gone; no more bottles on the floor, no more puddles of sick. The furniture is in its proper place, the chairs no longer overturned. There are some stains here and there, and the very faint air of the old smell. But it's masked and the stains are faded, reduced to pale ghosts of their former selves. His house is fit for human habitation now. I almost think it looks a little pretty.

"So, care to comment on how I've failed and you won't let your daughter set foot in here?" he growls.

"No. It looks good," I reply simply. Haymitch blinks for a moment.

"Are you being sarcastic?" he asks.

"Yes, everything I say is sarcastic, I'm incapable of being sincere," I volley back.

"Okay, okay! No need to get snappy, sweetheart."

"I'm the size and weight of a full-grown cow. There's plenty of need to get snappy."

"Not my problem."

"Haymitch, for once just shut up and take the damn compliment I gave you," I growl, trying not to smile. I know the corners of my mouth quirk up.

"That was a compliment?"

"Anything remotely positive is a compliment coming from me. You should know that by now."

"Right. I forgot. You're sullen and inhospitable at best."

"That's right. And you're drunk and unreliable at best, so I guess we're even."

Haymitch gives me a gravelly chuckle. We seem incapable of interacting without insult involved. It's just how we operate. By now, it's a bit of a game between us.

"I meant it, though, it looks good. Iris is fine to come in here. She'll probably make more of a wreck of the house in a day than you did in almost forty years."

"Thanks so much, that's an encouraging thing to hear," Haymitch jeers. But I know it's insincere. Haymitch loves Iris and wouldn't mind if she tore his house to the ground.

"No problem. If you don't mind, I'll be on my way back home now. Don't want to leave Peeta alone."

"With Iris?"

"With my mother. She likes telling bad childhood stories about me when I'm not listening."

"And it'll take you an hour as it is to get across the green. Do you need help?" he asks gruffly.

"No, I'm fine."

"Sure you are. Katniss is always fine regardless of whether she actually is or not. Don't expect me to help you back if you fall again this time around!"

"Sure thing!" I call back, giving him a half-hearted sneer as I waddle towards my house. I hear another gravelly chuckle as I keep walking and I cackle to myself. As I feared, my mother is just about to launch into a baby-Katniss story when I walk in.

"Mom, please," I implore as she stops in her tracks.

"Sorry," she giggles sheepishly. "It's just funny."

"For you. I don't need you giving Peeta any more reason to start giggling at me, he does that enough lately."

"I'm sorry," Peeta tells me with wide eyes, a bit like a stricken puppy.

"I'm just kidding, Peeta, it doesn't bother me that much. You'd know if it did. So stop looking at me like that, you're making me feel bad. You know how I feel about that face you do," I grumble, feeling immensely guilty already.

"What face?"

"That one you have on right now! Do you know how sad you look? It's unbearable, quit it," I tell him, playfully tugging on one of his curls. Peeta merely giggles sunnily as I sigh in mock-exasperation.

"Katniss, how are you feeling today?" my mother starts fussing, looking me over. "Anything notable? Any pain, anything?"

"I'm feeling huge today and like my back might've broken in half sometime in the afternoon."

"Sounds about right," my mother chuckles. "But if you don't go into labor in the next couple of days, we may have to do something about it."

"How many days are you willing to leave it? Sage made it sound like inducing won't be fun on my end."

"It won't be. But it may be necessary."

"Come on, kid, you have to come out sometime," I huff at my belly.

"Mama, the baby won't come out?"

"It's not coming out right now."

"Why not?"

"It's probably just shy," Peeta smiles softly.

"I'd like it to be a little less shy if possible," I shake my head.

"I know. It'll come out soon somehow," my mother soothes. "But if you don't feel anything in two days, I'm inducing you no matter how much you don't want me to. You have to make sure that baby's safe."

"I know," I murmur. I wince as the baby wriggles particularly hard. The next day progresses similarly. Nothing happens. I just keep trudging around, hand braced under my belly as it has been for months now. Everyone eyes me worriedly. I'm imminently frustrated by the time I get home.

"Mom, you might as well induce me now, this kid's never going to move!"

My mother clucks a little at me.

"Now stop, Katniss, you don't know that. We'll give it an extra day," she sighs as she pets my head. I grumble to myself. Peeta wordlessly kisses me once and keeps icing some cookies.

"The extra day won't help," I growl.

"You don't know that," my mother murmurs.

"Yes I do! You're going to have to induce me, bet me!" I snap. As if the child is trying to prove me wrong, I feel a familiar twinge from hipbone to hipbone. It's mild, but I know what it is.

"Just make a liar out of me then!" I half-huff, half chuckle. But I'm relieved.

"You feel something?" my mother perks up.

"Yes, finally. Of course it's right when I'm complaining about it, but as long as the kid's on its way, I don't care," I laugh a little.

"So what happened?" Peeta asks, anxious.

"Contraction. A small one, but small is better than nothing," I sigh, smiling.

"What happened, Mama? Mama?" Iris asks, anxious to be in the know and in the middle of things as always.

"Very little. Just a sign that the baby will be coming soon, little duck, that's all."

"Yay!" Iris squeaks, throwing her tiny hands in the air. Peeta seems a strange mixture of elation and nervousness. Last time with Iris I didn't tell him about these small contractions because I knew he'd get nervous. But this time it's taken so long for anything to happen, it'd be worse not to tell him.

"Peeta, calm down, it could be another day before anything really happens."

"It could?"

"Yes. It's alright," I try my best to calm him. And it does take another day. I feel the same light, intermittent contractions all day and into the night. I get up at some point in the night, in the still and quiet dark of very early morning just to try and stretch my back; its not been faring well under the prolonged pressure of this heavy baby. I have one leg out of the bed when I feel a familiar gush of fluid coursing down the insides of my legs.

"This early in the morning? You're killing me, kid," I sigh. I don't wake Peeta immediately. He's fast asleep and it's better to let him sleep for as long as possible. He will have to deal with me in a few hours after all. And I know I'm not easy to handle. I pad down the hallway, blinking sleepily, hair mussed up, walking to my mother's room. I open the door slowly.

"Mom?" I ask. She rolls over and murmurs something unintelligible, still half asleep. I waddle over to her and shake her shoulder a little.

"Mom," I repeat. I feel six years old again for a moment, wide awake in the dead of night, disturbing my mother and trying to wake her.

"Katniss, what's so important this early? Can't it wait?" she groans the same way she used to.

"No," I laugh a little.

"What's going on?"

"My water broke."

"Hm?"

"My water broke," I repeat a little louder. My mother opens her eyes now.

"Oh. Oh," she repeats, sitting up slowly and running a hand through her hair. "Just now?"

"Yes, only a minute ago or so."

"Right. Well, go back to sleep if you can," she advises, turning around and putting her feet on the floor.

"You're not going to too?"

"Nope, I have to watch you," she shakes her head as if it were obvious. "And at some point in the morning I have to take Iris to Haymitch's. I'll let her sleep a little longer too, though. I'll get her over there before things get a little more intense."

"Okay," I nod once, yawning. I turn around and hobble back to bed, tired enough to be able to slip back into sleep fairly quickly. An hour later or so I wake up halfway to feel the familiar, powerful seizing up from hipbone to hipbone and into my back. I'm vaguely aware of a soft warmth at my back and realize that Peeta has snuggled up behind me, his hand on my belly. I hear Iris's voice another time. It's getting light outside then. I think she tells me goodbye. She must be going to Haymitch's. I try to mutter the same back to her without grimacing as a stronger contraction hits me. I'm not sure if I succeed as I slip back under. Bright yellow sunlight glows behind my closed eyes when I get to the point that I can't sleep anymore. I inhale sharply through my nose as the familiar pain rips through me. I realize once it's over that Peeta is still there behind me.

"Good morning," he smiles a little, but worry still shines through in his eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I'm in labor," I groan quietly.

"...so?"

"So every few minutes I want to die and then it's okay for the next few," I answer contritely. Peeta grimaces.

"It's alright, I've done it before. I'll live. I'm as fine as I can be, don't worry."

"I will. Can't help it," he chuckles sheepishly.

"I know. And that's fine too-" I trail off as another one hits. Peeta holds my hand as my legs kick involuntarily from the pain. I exhale with a rush when it's over. My mother appears a few minutes after.

"Ah, you're awake. You slept for a while, Katniss, not many women can do that. And you're not usually a heavy sleeper."

I shrug.

"Probably tired from carrying this kid so long. I'm just ready for it to be out," I huff.

"Well, let's see how far you are."

I just wait for my mother to examine me and try to keep a lid on the pain. But my mother notices and gives me the same advice I gave Sage a few months ago.

"Katniss, don't try to keep quiet. It'll make it worse. You're in your house with Peeta and your mother. There's no one here who'll think any less of you if you make noise. Just let it go."

I nod and let the strangled moan slip, face contorted. Peeta holds my hand with all the strength he's got. I worry for a moment that I'm hurting him until I remember that, for all his gentleness, Peeta is brutally strong. I forget that all the time because Peeta is always sweet-tempered, his touch always whisper-light. But I remember that his warm, wide hand can withstand what pressure my small one can levy.

"Well, you're almost halfway. A little less than."

I groan in response.

"How much longer do you think it'll take?" Peeta asks worriedly.

"Not sure. Seems slow, but steady."

"Of course it's slow, that's all this kid has been so far," I complain a little breathlessly.

"At least it's not Iris. She was faster, but she came with a vengeance from what I remember," Peeta grimaces.

"Either way, it's not fun for me," I say, a bit defeated.

"Guess not," Peeta agrees, as supportive and sympathetic as ever.

"Well, do whatever you need to do to stay as comfortable as you can," my mother advises. "Do you want me to stay here, or let Peeta handle it for now?"

"Let Peeta handle it," I murmur. I am glad to have my mother here, but she'll try to give me advice the entire time. For now all I want is Peeta's strong, steady calm with me.

"Okay. I'll be back up periodically though."

My mother kisses me on the forehead and pads back downstairs.

"Can we walk around?" I ask through clenched teeth.

"Yes. Whatever you want," Peeta answers as if surprised I had to ask at all. He easily guides me to my feet, a warm hand at my back, arm around my side. Peeta paces with me up and down the upstairs hallway of the house. He walks with his hands laced with mine, pacing backwards in front of me so that I can loop my arms around his neck and lean on him when a contraction hits. I do not know how long I restlessly pace like this. Back and forth. I pace from mine and Peeta's room, past the nursery that used to be the garish, Capitol-made sitting room. Past Iris's new room with the restless, roaring ocean on the wall. Past various filler rooms that we've never converted. Past the old room that was Prim's that my mother inhabits now, that still has her tiny brush sitting on the desk and the flowery bedspread that she loved. I only wish in my half-aware state that she were here; to see the rooms changing, to pace with me and Peeta, to see Iris and this new baby. I can nearly hear her sweet words of encouragement, can imagine how her face would light up when she saw the baby. I sigh and shake my head and keep walking and am glad for Peeta's encouragement. I just nod and wish I could muster the strength to kiss him as he repeats, "It's alright, Katniss. You're doing well. You're doing so well," for hours on end.

Eventually it gets to where I don't walk any longer. I can't. I just stand with my forehead on Peeta's shoulder, shaking from my shoulders all the way down to my feet. He stands steadfastly and rubs the same circles on my back that he did five years ago when I was in labor with Iris. For a long while, nothing seems to change. The timing between contractions barely changes. The intensity doesn't either. I would be glad for it, but I know that if they don't get worse and closer together, then it'll take longer. And take longer it does. I idly watch the sun arc across the sky from the windows as I stand in the middle of the hallway with Peeta. Early morning is when I woke up. Mid-morning I started pacing. Early afternoon is where I stopped walking. Mid afternoon I start that animal wail that I've heard a lot by now. I muffle it by pressing my tightly-closed mouth against the warmth of Peeta's shoulder. I try to take comfort in his scent and in the softness of his shirt. After that, things go stagnant. I stand here like this and let the same wave of pain overtake me at the same constant interval. Always the brutal pain from hip to hip and into my back, running down my legs so they shiver, the intensity making every thing else shake. They come like clockwork, wearing me down. It's a constant barrage of pain. I don't move.

I watch the sky go the orange that Peeta loves so. I know that it's been more than twelve hours by now, since I went into labor at three or four in the morning. I can't remember which. Iris was out in twelve hours; this baby is taking longer. So much longer. Iris required a shorter, intense burst of effort. But this one is a test of endurance. I wonder how long I can wait it out before my resolve starts to dissolve. The orange fades into green, then purple, then dark blue. It's night now. And I'm still standing here moaning into Peeta's shirt. My mother keeps assuring me that I am getting somewhere. All I can do is shake my head at her. I can scarcely speak after more than twelve hours of this. I can't even muster some of the snappishness I made everyone suffer with Iris. All I can do is stand and tremble and whine and wait. Even my mother starts to worry an hour or two after dark. It is as she is shaking her head and eyeing me warily that the familiar, awful feeling overtakes. My closing throat, my nausea, the wild and endless pain. I yelp when it hits and Peeta barely manages to keep me upright as my legs go out from under me. He easily gets me back to the bed in time for it to hit with a vengeance. I am torn between being consumed by my agony and being so unspeakably grateful that the end is in sight. I thought that because I've been through labor before that I would be prepared this time. But this is nothing like last time and I am just as exhausted and at the end of my wits. Both Peeta and my mother can tell as they're being so quiet and gentle with me. Peeta very softly braids my hair again as I sit on all fours on the bed and howl. My mother alternates between wiping my face with a cool, damp cloth and rubbing my back, a little harder than Peeta does but it's just as helpful. This time no one tries to throw advice at me, no one tells me to breathe or to sit a certain way and consequently I do not threaten or yell. I wordlessly wail, head hanging between my shoulders, glad to be let alone. My mother examines me twice and deems that I'm not ready yet. But the third time she nods decisively.

"Come on, Katniss, turn over. You're ready."

My mother takes one of my feet in her hands, and advises Peeta to do the same. I curl over, sitting nearly upright, as far as I can with my belly still in the way. Peeta has my hand in his free one and I grasp it so tightly I'm not sure my own hand will ever recover as I shout and sweat and strain with what little I have left. I watch my own feet tremble in their hands as they push back against the force of my legs. I feel the sweat run, but am only just aware of it. I have more trouble with this part this time. I suppose it's just been taking so long that I don't have the same strength. A few minutes later, my mother deigns to hold my legs farther back, and to prop me up even farther so that I'm nearly curled in a ball. She counts the same way that Sage did, but she does it quietly and closer to my ear so I can hear her. She tells me what's happening. That she can see the baby's head, that it's getting closer, just a few more should do it. I almost breathe a sigh of relief when I hear her say that the baby's head is out, but I know I can't yet. I strain one last time with a strangled shout and feel the familiar sensation of the baby slipping free. I don't hear a little wail immediately. I hazily watch my mother rap the baby on its feet a few times and I finally hear a little squeak. The wail isn't as strong as Iris's. Much quieter, much more hesitant. It stops almost immediately. I wonder for a moment if the baby's alright until I hear my mother chuckle.

"You're breathing. I suppose you're just quiet, you funny thing," she tells the child. It squeaks again in response. She looks to me now and smiles.

"It's a boy, Katniss. And he's beautiful," she murmurs tearfully as she places him on my much flatter belly. And indeed he is.

"Peeta, look. He's got your hair," I smile hazily. "It's just as blond as yours."

Peeta's eyes and nose are bright red as tears course down his face. He nods and seems to barely be able to speak.

"He looks a lot like you in the face, though," he chokes. He's right. The child has a downy head of yellow-blond hair like Peeta's that looks like it'll wave a lot like Iris's does. His eyes seem shaped like mine, his chin looks like it'll be sharp like mine too. His nose looks a bit rounder, like Peeta's. Peeta gasps as soon as he opens his eyes.

"Katniss-"

I shake my head as I stare down into his tiny face and see my own eyes blinking back at me. He's got wide, gray eyes and I can see both myself and my father in them. The child looks around for just a moment before he curls into me. He seems wary of his surroundings, so unlike Iris who leaps into everything with abandon. He already seems cautious, almost frightened, looking on everything as if trying to decide if he's comfortable with it. He seems to decide he's not trusting it and he burrows farther into me with a muffled squeak. Peeta chuckles.

"He's not having it, is he?"

"Is that what took you so long to come out?" I ask him tiredly. "Trying to decide if things are alright out here?" I realize that my smile is tearful as I talk to him. He looks around a bit more and finally starts to really cry.

"Woah, don't be scared, little guy," I stroke his chubby cheek. "It's alright."

He continues to cry as my mother cleans him up, lets Peeta cut the cord, and bundles him up. I let her hand him to Peeta as he cradles him like he's made of glass. The child whimpers pitifully.

"It's okay. It's okay, Daddy's got you," Peeta croons, still crying.

"What's his name?" my mother whispers, sniffling, one hand clenched around a pen, the other stroking her new grandson's tiny, red fist. I look at him, at the reserved, cautious sort of calm in his eyes, even now as distressed as he is. That's what I can see in him, even at only a few minutes old. Calm and quiet, just like the little thicket of trees he loved when he was still inside me.

"Glen," I murmur, looking into his little gray eyes the color of some of the lighter feathers on the mockingjays that roost in the trees. Peeta nods vigorously.

"That's beautiful. I like it," he affirms, face still tomato-red. My mother nods once in agreement and writes it down.

An hour or so later, after I'm cleaned up and finally calming down, my mother goes to fetch Iris from Haymitch's. It's nearly her bedtime, but we know she'll be too excited to go to sleep at Haymitch's house. I sit propped against the headboard, paper-white and so exhausted I can barely think, rocking Glen as he blinks and scowls lightly at the rest of the room. Peeta is downstairs waiting for Iris. I can hear her insistent little voice outside before she's even in the house. I can't help but laugh at it floating up from outside. When I hear Peeta calmly trying to quiet her I know she's bounded in the house with abandon and is likely still jumping about a little. I hear her small footsteps walking with Peeta's heavy ones up the stairs and when the door creaks open, she peeks out from behind Peeta's legs.

"Mama, where's the baby?"

"He's right here, little duck. You can come see if you want."

"Iris, be careful, don't jump on the bed-" Peeta scrambles as she darts forward. She scrambles up beside me as gently as she can and peers into his face. Peeta grimaces as he notices that her small, brown boots are still on her feet and a dirt clod makes its way onto the quilt. I pet her braid and lean down with the baby.

"Iris, this is your little brother, Glen."

In a rare display, Iris says absolutely nothing. She just peers into his face and he stares back at her. He squeaks once at her, but it's not a frightened one. He clearly recognizes that Peeta and I, and now Iris, are people he's safe with. She grins when he squeaks.

"Can I hold him, Mama?"

I nod tiredly and Peeta guides her to a chair close to the bed. He gathers Glen out of my arms and gently places him into Iris's small ones. For a moment I wonder if she'll be careful enough with him. But my worry dissipates as soon as he settles into her arms. Iris is, in this moment, the gentlest I've ever seen her. My mother comes in after a moment and Glen starts to whimper when he hears the snap of the door shutting. Peeta starts over to quiet him. But he doesn't have to. Iris, without a word, starts singing the song I've sung to her since before she was born. Her little voice wavers a little; she doesn't have the same talent for music that I do, that my father did. But she knows the song and she can sing it well enough and sing she does. Glen immediately quiets and burrows into her. My vision clouds with tears. The last thing I see before exhaustion overtakes me is the achingly familiar sight of a little dark-headed girl with a long braid curled protectively and lovingly over a small, silky blond head, singing the familiar song:

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise_

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings_

_them true_

_Here is the place where I love you_

_**Hope you all enjoyed Chapter 20! Thanks to all who reviewed last time! As always, I'd love if you'd drop by with a review to tell me what you thought. Thanks for reading! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	21. Chapter 21

_**Hey guys! I know I've been gone for a loonnnggg time this time and I'm so sorry. This semester was a bit insane. Real life is hitting hard with another move out of the country. But I'm trying my best to remember you guys and get to this story as often and as soon as possible. It's lovely on a stressful day to read that you guys are still with me and still reading and waiting for updates. So here is the long overdue Chapter 21. Enjoy!**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**_

Peeta and I learn very quickly in the next few days that taking care of Glen is absolutely nothing like taking care of Iris. Other than the obvious feedings and diaper changes, we are much less prepared than we expected. I expected having had a child before would make taking care of him easier. Besides not being as nervous around babies in general, I admit two days in that I am absolutely ill-prepared. Glen is, as I suspected, so very different from her. For one, he eats less. Not that it matters. Glen is a slow baby and thus a slow eater. He does everything with prior infant thought and carries out all movements and behaviors like a little turtle. I can easily sit with Glen pressed to my chest for an hour and a half before he decides he's done. Glen is more attached to me than Iris was as well. Iris wasn't particularly needy insofar as contact and being held. If she wanted to be held, she normally gravitated more towards Peeta than me. Glen is the opposite. I haven't experienced this yet. I am used to Peeta being the preferred parent. It makes more sense to me for him to be since he's a model parent as far as I'm concerned. But Glen clings to me like I'm his hope of heaven all the time, tiny hand tangled in my braid. And Glen never wants to be put down. He cries more than Iris, but his cries are so very quiet, as if he's afraid to make too much noise. It takes us a while to notice his small, hesitant whimpers. Eventually, they'll escalate into a real cry, but not until he's whimpered enough that he's sure no one will notice him unless he really cries. He starts the quiet whimpering as soon as anyone puts him down. But he's an unusually placid baby as long as he's with someone. I shake my head at him as he presses his cheek against me, blinking calmly.

"What is it with you?" I ask him very softly, chuckling a little.

His grey eyes flick up to me and he stares at me with that pensive, analytical look of his. Peeta moves up behind me and Glen's eyes move to him.

"Are things scary without Mama with you?" Peeta croons, stroking his downy, yellow head.

"I think so. I think he's scared of being alone. It's okay, no one's going to leave you," I assure him. He blinks once more.

"He seems very serious," Peeta giggles as Glen shoots a wary, infant scowl at a brass pot he seems to find particularly threatening.

"You were serious like that, Katniss," my mother interjects. "Though I don't think you were ever really scared. You just didn't like anyone until they proved themselves worthy."

"That sounds about right," Peeta grins.

"Prim was the skittish baby. Everything under the sun scared her," my mother shakes her head wistfully.

"My mom said I was the same way," Peeta grins sheepishly. "So he's got a double dose."

"Why is he scared of everything?" Iris asks, cocking her head, staring at him hard. It's a foreign concept to her. Iris is scared of almost nothing.

"I don't know, little duck. Some people are just very cautious. Mama's one of them."

"No you're not, Mama, you're not scared of anything."

"Cautious doesn't mean you're necessarily scared. Just that you make sure you can trust something or someone before you make a decision."

"Oh. Am I cautious?"

"I...no, I don't think you're a very cautious person, Iris," Peeta shakes his head. "Which is not bad-" he assures her as she pouts. "It's neither here nor there."

"You should tell him not to be scared. I'll make sure nothing gets him," Iris assures, determined.

"Oh, I think he knows that already, little duck," I lean down and kiss her on the forehead. And it's true. There are few people Glen trusts, but Iris is undeniably one of them. He clings to her with almost as much strength as he does me. It reminds me of Peeta and Prim both.

Within a week I'm back out in the woods, much to my mother and Peeta's disapproval. This time, I have both Iris and Glen with me. Iris bounces along at my side and Glen cuddles up to me, sitting in that wrap that I still have.

"Where are we going, Mama?" Iris asks curiously.

"Well, we can check the traps and hunt a bit in a little while. But do you remember that little section of trees we went to so much before Glen was born?"

"Yes! It's pretty!"

"It is, and I think Glen will like it since he used to kick when we were there. So we're going to go there for a bit."

I smile as Iris starts clambering up the tree before I do. She's still small, but she's just like a little squirrel. She climbs like I do.

"Look, Mama, I made it up by myself!"

"I see that," I assure her, breathing a little harder than normal. The aftereffects of pregnancy plus Glen's solid little body strapped to my front makes the climbing harder. But I make it just fine and settle on a thick branch. Iris is happily hanging off one just next to me, swinging back and forth.

"Iris, be careful," I warn her.

"Yes, Mama," she immediately clambers up to sit next to me. The mockingjays are all separately singing their own tune right now. I whistle a short one. The canopy goes silent for a moment until they decide to start chiming in, repeating the one I've just whistled. And just as I predicted, Glen perks up. His little grey eyes widen and he cranes his neck as much as he can. I slip him out of the wrap and put him in the other way around, making sure to support his head since he's still far too young to do it himself. I know he can't see the canopy well with his still-weak newborn eyes. But he clearly sees enough and he squeaks infinitesimally. He waves his arms around wildly.

"He likes it," Iris notes, smiling at him.

"He does, doesn't he? You did the same thing at the lake when you were this small."

"I did?"

"Yes. You did when you were in my belly and you did after you were born."

Iris just nods, processing the information. I think back to that day by the lake with Iris; how I just talked to her about everyone who should be alive to see her. And I get the same rush of feeling looking at Glen's feathery-looking head and chubby, waving arms. I kiss his head and sigh against it.

"Mama, are you sad?"

I swallow hard. Iris is only perceptive where those she loves are concerned, but she is indeed frighteningly perceptive then.

"A little. Don't worry about it, little duck, Mama's alright."

"Why are you sad?"

Iris isn't letting it go. I decide to be as honest with her as I can.

"I miss people who aren't here and wish they could have met you and your brother."

"Who?"

"Mostly my sister, little duck."

"Oh." Iris is pensive for a moment, but I know the questions are going to keep coming. Iris is unfailingly full of questions. I'll tell her what I can; she's only asking because she's worried about me.

"What was her name?"

I realize with a start that I've never told Iris my sister's name.

"Primrose. But we called her Prim."

"What did she look like?" Iris asks with curious, wide eyes. I smile.

"She was very small. Shorter than me, though she was only thirteen when she died, so she might've been taller when she was grown. But I don't think she would ever have been very big. She was a bit pale, a lot like your grandmother, and had blond hair and blue eyes a lot like her, too. And she wore her hair in pigtails all the time."

"Do you have a picture of her?" Iris asks eagerly. Glen has gone still. I'd wonder if he was asleep except that his eyes are still wide-open. I can't tell if he's listening to the Mockingjays who are still singing, or if he's listening to my voice. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was paying rapt attention to what I'm telling Iris.

"Somewhere, yes. Mostly paintings, though. Your daddy painted a few of her after she died. To remember."

"Did she come out to the woods with you?"

I laugh a little.

"No, never. Prim didn't like the woods like you and I do. She was scared of them and hated when I shot anything."

Iris giggles a little.

"She was scared of the woods?"

"Oh yes. Prim was scared of almost everything."

"Like Glen?" Iris smiles.

"Yeah, I guess so," I smile down at him.

"What did she do when you brought deers home?"

"Deer," I remind her gently. "And she was out here once when I shot one. She tried to heal it. That was what she was good at, though. She was like your grandmother that way."

"That's funny, Mama. Because you're not scared of anything."

"That's not quite true. But I was definitely scared of a lot less than she was," I smile, remembering. "That's why I tried so hard to make her feel safe. I don't think she felt safe very much, unless I was with her. I'd sing to her like I do you."

"Did you sing the same song?"

"Yes," I sigh. "I sang the same song to her. And I called her little duck, too."

"You did?"

"All the time."

"Would she have liked me?" Iris asks in her small, eager voice.

"She would've loved you," I tell her in a near-whisper. "And Glen. You two would've been the most important thing in the world to her. Along with her own babies, had she had any."

I knew I'd have to tell Iris about her when she was older, and could understand. And I'll have to do the same for Glen, I think as I stroke his downy head. But it's still as if I'm telling them both right now.

"Do you think Glen will be like her?"

"He might be. He's certainly about as skittish as she was so far," I chuckle. Glen continues his quiet staring, unawares.

"I'll make sure he's not scared, though," Iris assures me, resting her chin on the handle of her tiny bow, small hands clutching it. Her braid dangles errantly. I smile very softly at her.

"I know you will, little duck. I have no doubt."

"I'm not scared of anything, like you," she boasts.

"I'm sure you're not," I chuckle. "But if you were, it's okay to be scared, Iris. I've told you before, I'm scared of a few things."

"What are you scared of?"

"Like I always say, I'm scared of losing you, or Daddy, or Glen, or Grandma. Or any of my friends. People I love."

Iris thinks for a minute.

"I guess that's scary, yeah," she whispers, staring at us both.

"Yeah," I agree. "But it's okay to be scared, little duck. As long as you do your best not to let it stop you."

Iris nods, determined. "I won't let it."

"I know you won't," I smile softly at her.

We sit in silence for a while until Iris giggles out of seemingly nowhere.

"What are you laughing at?" I tug playfully on her braid.

"The bird. He's really chubby like Glen and his feathers look like his hair," she titters, pointing. It takes me a moment to find it, but finally I spot the bird. It's a tiny, yellow chickadee. A particularly fat one with slightly curly, soft-looking feathers. The bird's face is as round as Glen's and he hops around clumsily. I laugh a little too.

"It does look like him. Glen, look, you're just like him."

Glen's gaze and wobbly head are just as clumsy as the bird. The bird starts chattering squeakily and it sounds just like the faint peeps Glen makes right now. Glen tries to watch the bird as best he can. He squeaks so faintly I barely hear it.

"Are you a little chickadee, Glen?" I grin at him. He wobbles a bit before he yawns.

"Okay, okay, I'll let you go to sleep," I murmur to him, turning him back around in the wrap so he can rest his head on my chest. He cuddles into me immediately. I carefully pick my way down from the tree as Iris skitters down the other side. Iris stays quiet as I hunt and so does Glen as he dozes against me. Iris is now fairly adept at helping me gather herbs and check traps. Sometimes her fingers are a bit clumsy for the more intricate traps, but in turn, her small fingers and short stature make her quite good at spotting and gathering some of the low-growing herbs that are harder for me to see.

Iris has much more fun than I do with everyones' reaction to Glen as we do our customary trek through town. She is much more positive and patient a presence than I; she gets it from Peeta. Although even I enjoy watching the general air of joy that follows us today as everyone peers at the downy blond head and ruddy, infant face at my chest.

"Oh look, he's got that blond hair of Peeta's."

"Goodness, you've got yourself a little boy, and a pretty one at that."

"Look at that curly hair."

"He looks like you in the face, Katniss."

A lot of people say something to the effect of, "You've got one just like you, and now Peeta's got one just like him." I don't mention that Iris has a lot of traits of Peeta's and that it already seems that Glen has inherited my penchant for anti-social and cautious behavior. I just nod and let them gush. Almost everyone tells me how beautiful he is. And they're right. Glen has a lot of my slender features, made a lot less sharp by Peeta's genes, and those dove-gray eyes and dandelion-blonde hair. He is indeed a pretty baby. Both of them are. Iris has a wild, untroubled, hopeful sort of air with her wavy dark hair and the bluest eyes anyone has ever seen. And Glen, from what we can see already, has a quiet, calm, refined aura that I like already.

Glen isn't very responsive to everyones' attention. He mostly stays asleep as if he isn't particularly keen on interacting with a wealth of strangers. He opens his eyes for our last two stops, first at Sae's. She chuckles the throaty chuckle she has and runs a small section of his hair through her fingers. Sage is the last and she smiles a small, closed-mouthed smile, which is about as much as anyone ever gets from her.

"Finally decided to come out, then?"

"After being a week overdue and keeping me in labor for seventeen hours," I huff. "It's a good thing for you that you're cute," I direct down at Glen. He just continues to clutch my braid and blink. Florian loudly babbles nonsense syllables at his mother, waving a rattle in his fist. He seems a fairly insistent sort of presence, a lot like Sage herself.

"What's his name?" Sage asks with her normal terseness, regarding my baby carefully.

"Glen."

Sage nods sharply once, which means approval on her part. Glen squeaks a very small bit as Florian shakes the rattle particularly hard. Florian stops and listens to the small squeaking for a moment before squealing laughing. I laugh with him.

"He's so loud. Like someone else I know," I dig playfully. Sage snorts.

"He does that with sounds he likes. So apparently he likes that little squeak he's doing," Sage nods at Glen. She shakes her head a little. "He's quieter than Iris was."

"Who's quieter than me, Mama?" Iris tugs on the sleeve of my hunting jacket.

"Sage is saying that Glen is quieter than you were when you were a baby."

"He is very quiet," she agrees, nodding vigorously.

"But apparently your Florian hears him just fine," I smile, watching Florian pause once more, staring blankly up, before he giggles madly, shaking his rattle with a vengeance when he hears the little squeak. Sage smiles the barely-noticeable tender smile she only wears when she looks at Florian.

"He seems to. He's probably happy to hear another baby around. It's not like there's many here," she gestures vaguely to the main thoroughfare of District 12. And I suddenly realize that Glen might not be as lonely as Iris was before she made friends at school. Glen and Florian are the same age and will be able to keep each other company, provided they get along. He's only a week old, but from what I've learned of Glen in a week, he seems like the sort of child that gets along with a wide variety of people. I let Glen and Florian squeak and babble, respectively, at each other for a moment before giving Sage the customary nod goodbye as I turn back towards home.

As we're walking, Iris dances ahead of me a little. We're halfway home when she stops and turns to me.

"Mama, we have to go by Uncle Haymitch's house!"

"Well we can, but why, little duck?"

"Uncle Haymitch told me to promise I would ask you to bring the baby over. He wants to see him! He hasn't even seen him yet and it's been a whole week!"

"Well, why don't you run ahead and ask Uncle Haymitch if he wants lunch? If not, I'll bring Glen over, but I think your Uncle Haymitch might like to get out of the house."

Iris darts ahead of me and I watch her zig zag up the hill towards the Victor's Village. Iris is a fast little thing just as she was when she was a baby. I watch her knock on his door, talk animatedly for a moment when the door opens, and subsequently dart back to me.

"Uncle Haymitch is going to come over."

I nod at her. I figured as much. Haymitch seems to be outside a bit more than he used to. I suppose he's trying to keep from losing what little progress he's made.

Peeta grins from ear to ear when we all walk in. He immediately kisses Iris on the head, kisses me, and gently lifts Glen out of the wrap at my chest, cradling him lovingly. Glen waves his arms around at him as best he can.

"Did you have fun, Glen? Do you like walking around with your Mama?" he croons and I shake my head. Peeta is so deliriously happy lately that I can't help but feel the same. He leans forward to kiss the tip of Glen's nose and for a moment their blond hair tangles together and I marvel that it's the exact same shade. Glen kicks his legs happily and Peeta grins at him.

"Oh, Haymitch is coming over for lunch. I think he wants to see Glen," I warn Peeta, since he's the one who'll have to cook to feed an extra person. Although, as expected, Peeta replies, "Oh, it's alright. I made enough, I always try to."

"How'd you fare outside today?" my mother asks, sizing me up.

"A little out of breath, but just fine otherwise."

"You know you should probably wait a little longer after _having a baby_ to traipse around outside, Katniss. Not that my telling you that will do any good."

I shrug and my mother clucks at me a little before moving over to pet Glen's head. Peeta grins at her and hands him to her. She euphorically bounces him up and down, making faces at him. Both Peeta and my mother love babies more than almost anything. I tend to fare better with children after they learn to speak. Although even I can admit that there is something sweet about the warm, quiet weight of a baby on your chest.

"Uncle Haymitch!" Iris squeals, loud enough to make us all jump. Immediately after, I hear the quiet whimpers coming from Glen's direction. My mother automatically hands him off to me; I'm the one who'll be able to quiet him the quickest.

"Hey sweetheart," Haymitch greets Iris, moving his bottle into the crook of his arm so he can give her the hug she clearly wants. "Having fun terrorizing your mother today?"

"I don't do that," Iris shakes her head, although I'm not sure she completely knows what "terrorize" means.

"Sure you don't," Haymitch quips sarcastically before looking up to me. His eyes flick down to Glen, who quieted as soon as he got his tiny, pink fingers around my braid. He's blinking placidly as ever. Haymitch almost chuckles, but settles for rolling his eyes.

"Jesus, it's Peeta Jr. He looks just like you, boy," Haymich directs at Peeta. Peeta grins but shakes his head.

"He has my hair, but he looks like Katniss in the face."

"Does he?" Haymitch asks. He must be just inebriated enough not to look at Glen too closely. He lumbers closer.

"Let me see him."

I've learned to judge if Haymitch is too drunk to hold babies, and he seems alright for the moment. I pass Glen to Haymitch, who holds him like a football in one arm. He peers into Glen's face.

"So he does. He's got those Seam eyes of yours," he tells me, his own gray eyes searching Glen's face. "Got that sharp, strong chin, too. But at least he's a boy. You've got a chin like a man, sweetheart."

"Haymitch, you really can't go a day without insulting anyone, can you?" my mother pesters him. I'm sure she used to have to bear his sarcasm when they were both young, even before his Games.

"It's just honesty, don't shoot the messenger," he shrugs.

"At least I have a chin," I volley back. Peeta tries very hard not to laugh and Haymitch sneers at me. Both Peeta and my mother fail in their quest not to laugh at my retort and they both dissolve into giggling in the background. "It's just honesty," I shrug back. Haymitch rolls his eyes and stalks off to one of the chairs around the kitchen table. He sits down with Glen and keeps giving him that hard stare he always does.

"You don't have much of a sense of humor, do you, kid?" Haymitch laughs a little as Glen blinks up at him with an infinitesimal frown on his small face. "Got that from your mother."

"He's just cautious," Peeta defends him. Haymitch ignores him.

"Quieter than your sister, though. Got that from your dad, I bet. Your mother never shuts up, you'll learn that."

We ignore Haymitch's monologue and eventually he stops it. He and Glen just sit quietly together for a long while. Iris falls asleep sprawled out on the kitchen floor next to him immediately after finishing her lunch. We all sit with quiet, slow conversation every now and then. Haymitch leafs through a copy of the paper my mother left on the table from this morning. Both she and Peeta read it every morning. They share the same one since relatively few copies are sent to tiny District 12. I tend to avoid it since we both crop up from time to time. I don't like to be reminded that Panem still likes keeping tabs on me and Peeta, even if the interest is innocent now.

"Hey kid, did you know you're in the paper?" Haymitch asks Glen. I freeze.

"What?!"

"It's okay, Katniss, there's no picture of him or anything. Just a mention of him, that's all," Peeta murmurs calmly, already at my side.

"What did they say?!" I snap at Haymitch.

"Katniss, Peeta's right. It's harmless," my mother tries to calm me.

"They published something about Iris after she was born, did you know that?"

I nearly choke.

"No! What?!"

"Yes, just a small paragraph. And that's all this is, too. They probably just ask people around the District about it. They don't know all that much from the looks of it. Here, do you want me to read it?" Peeta asks, rubbing my shoulders to try and calm me down.

"Read it," I demand with gritted teeth. I know I'm spiraling into a breakdown and everyone around me is doing everything they can to pull me out of it. All I can think about is that people are publishing information, however vague it may be, on sweet, rambunctious Iris who is sprawled out on the floor, and on tiny, squeaky, feathery-headed Glen who sleeps in the crook of Haymitch's arm.

"Listen. Past Hunger Games Victors and war revolutionaries Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark welcomed a child on Thursday of last week. Sources in District 12 tell us that Glen Mellark was born sometime in the afternoon or evening on Thursday." Peeta sighs and shakes his head before continuing. "Our sources also tell us that little Glen has his father's blond hair and mother's mockingjay-gray eyes."

"Are they gonna list his blood type too?" Haymitch snorts. "Trust the Capitol to have to report what his damn eye color is."

Although the Capitol no longer has the same power over the Districts, the city itself still exists, is still the center of legal processes in Panem, and the people inhabiting it are almost as shallow and foolish as they were years ago. I suspect it'll take a few more generations to get sensible people living there. And for some reason, despite the fact that I spurred the rebellion that destroyed half of their city, killed their President, and overturned their way of living, they still love me. I suppose old habits die hard. The Capitol still loves their victors and they love me and Peeta the most out of any of them. Either that or the Districts now have enough control over Panem's information and media that they can publish what they want regardless of what the left-over Capitol citizens want.

"They gave Iris's hair and eye color in the one they wrote about her," my mother sighs. "If they knew the weight, they'd give that too."

Peeta purses his lips and continues.

"Glen is Katniss and Peeta's second child, brother to five-year-old Iris Mellark. After our Mockingjay's tragic loss of her first baby after the 75th Games, which was a Quarter Quell year for those who were too young to have watched it, we know every citizen of Panem is overjoyed to welcome first Iris, and now Glen. Panem is glad to know that, for the star-crossed lovers of District 12, the odds finally seem to be in their favor."

I sneer a little. The odds are not in our favor that much if people are still keeping tabs on us.

"See? They don't know very much, Katniss. It's not as if they're filming you still or anything," my mother offers.

"I'd rather them not know anything at all," I snap.

"I don't think they mean it maliciously, Katniss. I mean, of course I'd rather them not know so much either, but they're just so happy. The Capitol always loved you, even if it was misguided. And the Districts? They hang on your every move, you know that. And you're alive and you have two healthy children and they know they can do the same and that their children won't have to go into the arena because of you."

I know that Peeta is right. I don't like it; I'd give everything to be able to escape into anonymity. But I've known for many years that I'll never escape being Panem's mockingjay. Panem will always, however innocent it is, be watching my every move.

"I know. I just don't want them watching my children."

"Look, sweetheart," Haymitch starts, eyes as hard and practical and honest as always. "Hate it all you want, but your kids are going to be about as famous as you two are. You need to start reading the paper and checking up on what _they_ are checking up on. You need to know what everyone else knows about these little rugrats so that they don't grow up and leave District 12 and suddenly everyone they talk to starts crying, or wants their picture and they don't know why."

"They'll know why, I'll tell them about the Games eventually-"

"No, they won't know why. They won't think that people will gush over _them_. You, yes, but not them. You've got to warn them, sweetheart. Everyone is going to look to them as as much of an example as you are and they'll watch them as closely as they do you and they have to know it before it blindsides them. It's not fair, but it's true. I'm not saying to tell them now, but when they're old enough to understand, you've got to."

I scowl, but I nod because I know Haymitch is right. All I want is to hole up in District 12 and never leave. I want to live anonymously, I want to make sure my children never have to deal with my past. But I can't. It is something I have to remind myself every day. I have only taken Iris out of the District once, when she was a baby, and Glen is far too young to have ever gone. And that is a problem. Once again, I am reminded that I can't hole up in District 12 and leave my children unprepared to deal with their world. Haymitch nods in response to my own nod. He seems to be able to tell that I've realized what he means. I resolve, at some point, to take my children out of District 12, when Glen is old enough to understand, too.

"Do they publish things on them often?" I swallow hard. I don't read the paper, so I have no idea how closely people watch us. Peeta reads it every day; he must deign not to tell me if there's something in there because he knows this is what will happen.

"Hardly at all. It's only been when Iris was born, and now Glen," Peeta supplies. I nod quietly. I pace over to where Haymitch cradles Glen. He hands him over without a word and I scoop the baby into my arms and press him gently to me. Glen grabs my braid as he's wont to do.

"I...I may go outside again for a bit. Just let Iris sleep," I tell them quietly. Waking Iris is never a good idea; she tends to throw tantrums if woken up. That and her enthusiasm for everything also means a lot of probing questions that I do not have the capacity to answer right now. I do not want to have to explain to her just yet why she and Glen appear in the paper from time to time. I just want quiet and calm. Which is why I wrap Glen up and take him with me. Once in the woods, I do not just talk to him. I ask him things.

"What should I do, Glen? You seem like a sensible baby, how would you react?" I laugh a little to him as I sit in the trees with him. I let the mockingjays titter whatever they please. Glen stares and blinks.

"I'll take that as an 'I don't know.' I'm sorry to ask you big questions like that. You're a baby. You're both babies. You shouldn't have to process information like this. Ever. And I'm sorry that you'll have to some day."

Glen listens quietly. Something tells me that this trait, this penchant for being a quiet, placid listener, will carry through out of babyhood.

"I'm sorry, but your mama and daddy have a lot of baggage that you'll learn about someday, my little chickadee," I smile a little at the nickname I've just come up with, stroking his feathery hair. He squeaks a little.

"And I don't know when your sister is going to start asking questions I don't ever want to answer. You'll ask them someday, too. I don't think I know how to answer them, Glen. I really don't."

He continues to blink, hand clenched around my hair. An aching lump forms in my throat.

"Your sister is so happy. She's an innocent sort of person. How am I supposed to tell her about the Hunger Games?" I choke. A few tears bead in Glen's yellow-blond hair as I start to cry. It's the first time I've said that phrase to either of my children. And instead of them being to Iris, who is five and might have some hope of understanding, it's to week-old Glen whose eyes seem older than mine. I shake my head at the absurdity of it. But it doesn't seem as absurd as Glen presses his cheek to my breastbone and cuddles up to me. I know in my head that he doesn't understand a word of what I've told him and that I'll have to tell it to him again when he's old enough to understand it, just like Iris. But I also think, on some level, that he understands something of what's happening. At the very least, he seems to know that his mama is upset. And instead of crying with me like Iris would've done, Glen just presses his cheek to me as hard as he can and clutches my braid. I rock back and forth a little bit, clutching my baby to me, my lips pressed to his hair, as I cry. My tears soak spots of his blonde head. He is the most comforting presence I could hope for. And for once, I feel better when the tears have slowed. Glen wriggles a little when I kiss his head one last time and raise my head up, looking with swollen, red eyes on the trees in front of me. He squeaks, questioning.

"It's okay now, chickadee, Mama's alright. Thanks to you."

I slowly climb down from the tree I'm lodged in. Glen falls asleep on the walk back to the Victor's Village. Everyone regards my puffy, pink face apprehensively as I come back in. Iris is still asleep.

"Katniss?" Peeta asks.

"I'm okay. I just...needed a minute. I'm fine."

Peeta searches my face and smiles a small bit when he realizes it's true.

"He's a good little listener," I chuckle thickly as I look down at him. "Like his daddy," I look across at Peeta. And I think for the first time in a long time, as Peeta kisses my cheek and Glen sleeps quietly at my chest, that whatever happens, that it'll be alright. It won't be easy, but in the end, it'll all be just fine.

_**Hope you all enjoyed Chapter 21! As always, do stop by and leave a review and tell me what you thought. Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	22. Chapter 22

_**Hi all! I know it's been forever and a day since I updated and I'm so sorry. Between my personal life going to hell a little bit and graduate school taking so much time, life is really busy for me right now. I'm still working on this when I can and have no intention of abandoning it any time soon. It just may take a while between updates until things calm down a little. **_

_** Anyhow, thanks to everyone who is still sticking around! Many thanks also to everyone who has found this story recently! I got an amazing rush of messages and reviews in the last few months and it was great! I'm sorry that I won't have time to reply to them all, but know that I have indeed read each and every one of them and that all of the positive reviews and messages were a bright spot in a rough couple of months. :)**_

_** So, I'll quit talking and let you all get to reading. Hope you enjoy!**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**_

We all continue to try to understand Glen in the coming months. He's not always the easiest baby to figure out. He's more a slow-moving sort of person than Iris is, so his baby-milestones take longer. I worry for a while when he doesn't make any more noise other than his infinitesimal newborn squeaks for a long time. At least two weeks after Iris did. Finally, there's a day that I watch Peeta drop a whisk and it clatters to the floor. His hands clutch the counter edge, knuckles white. Glen is wrapped up at my front and I bolt over to Peeta, arms immediately around him, cheek pressed to his back. I grimace when I feel how tense the muscles there are. Glen doesn't seem to react much to what's going on. His small eyebrows furrow, but other than that, he remains quiet.

"Peeta, what do you see?" I ask him quietly.

He shakes his head at me and doesn't answer. I gently reach up and try to grab his hand, but it's clenched fast to the table and I can't dislodge it. I suppose at times like this, when Peeta isn't aware of what is real, I should be more careful lest he lash out. But he hasn't done it since the end of the war and I can't bear to just leave him there and watch him look wildly around, terrified and confused. So I place my hand on top of his, and put my fingers between his, as if he's not clutching the table and he's lacing his fingers with mine.

"Peeta?"

"Who are you?"

I wince and press my cheek harder to his back.

"It's Katniss, Peeta."

"Oh. But...how do I know it's really you?"

I can almost see the confused and suspicious scowl on his face. I can never make it through one of his spells without feeling the crushing guilt weighing down on me. They did this to him because of me. And I'll spend the rest of my life trying my damnedest to make it up to him. To make it as right as I can.

"Well, you could ask me a question. One that only I would know. The real Katniss."

Peeta pauses for a moment.

"Katniss can sing."

I smile sadly against him.

"You want me to sing?"

"Yes. If you're a mutt from the Capitol you won't sound like her. Maybe close. But you could never sound exactly like her if you were a mutt."

I hope as I start to sing that I sound like I normally do to him. I've only sung the first line when I hear a high, melodic, happy squeak from my front. Peeta tenses more.

"What is that? It sounds like a baby."

"It is. It's _our_ baby. Peeta, it's Glen. Do you remember Glen? And Iris?"

"I-" Peeta trails off. He's trying. I just keep singing to try and help him through it. It usually helps. And as I sing Glen chirps with me like he's singing as best he can as young as he is. It takes a while for Peeta's muscles to relax, but eventually he turns around with clearer eyes.

"I'm sorry-"

I shake my head at him. He always apologizes after one of his spells. And I always cut him off.

"It's not your fault. Please don't apologize."

Peeta nods, looking down, troubled before his head snaps up.

"Wait, the sound, that was Glen." The smile that eases onto his face is slow, but it gets there all the same. I nod.

"Yes. I'm glad. He was worrying me. You finally decided to make some sound, chickadee."

"He sounds just like one," Peeta grins. Glen just watches us innocently and placidly with round, gray eyes. In the next few days, Glen is not as chattery as Iris was when she learned how to make real noise on her own. Where Iris would prattle non-stop, Glen only seems to do so when he hears something he particularly likes. Any time I sing. When he hears birds of any kind. Any time he hears Peeta or Iris talk. Once, he even responds to Florian's happy babbling, finally able to communicate back a little bit. Florian is ecstatic and he squeals, grinning and rocking from side to side a little bit.

"He does that when he's happy," Sage chuckles as Florian rocks. Florian and Glen keep each other going in a cycle of baby-noises for a long while until both Sage and I decide they won't stop any time soon and we might as well go on with our respective business. Florian doesn't seem at all pleased that I've taken Glen away from him as I walk back towards the Victor's Village. I can hear Sage trying to hush the beginnings of a fit from him. Florian is already so like her. A bit mouthy, very insistent, prone to sour moods when he doesn't get his way. But, from what I can tell, he has a lightning-quick mind like hers, a level head, and a good spirit underneath the brusqueness.

"You made a friend today, chickadee," I grin to him as he stares up at me.

Glen squeaks along to the sound of my voice.

The smiles come after that. Glen smiles with the same reticence that he does everything else. Iris was an intensely smiley baby, but then, Iris is intense about everything. Glen will not smile at anything unless he's absolutely sure that he has a small handle on what's going on and knows how he feels about it. He smiles at me first. I watch Iris dance about in our kitchen and Peeta warns her that she's getting a little unruly. If she doesn't stop, she's going to fall or knock something over. Iris, as usual, doesn't heed anyone's warning. I tell her the same thing.

"Iris, calm down," I tell her with the same slight bite in my voice that all my admonitions and warnings tend to have. She giggles, testing me, and keeps going. I'm about to get legitimately annoyed with her when she swings her arms just a little too hard in an arc and knocks an entire sack of flour off the table and straight onto herself.

She coughs a few times before she stands stock still, looking herself over. She is covered; hair, face, shirt, trousers, arms completely dusty white. The only things peeking through are two blue eyes. I suppose I should continue admonishing her, but I can't do anything but cackle and decide that having a whole sack of flour on her is punishment enough. Peeta's giggling too, arms crossed and resting on the table, head on top of them. He has to hide his face he thinks it's so funny.

I'm doubled over in-near silent laughter and when I open my eyes, Glen is looking up at me and grinning. He can't laugh quite yet, but the hard grin is there all the same. I don't think the grin is because of Iris; he's not looking in her direction. My laugh slows down and I smile back when I realize that Glen is merely smiling because his Mama is. If his calculating mother thinks it's safe and funny, it must be so. I shake my head a little. The trustingness of children has always baffled me. Probably because, even as a child, I was uneasy around everyone, sometimes even my own family besides Prim. But both Iris and Glen trust me and Peeta imminently and it never fails to make me smile in a bit of disbelief. I'm giving Glen that smile back as I watch his little face light up in a quiet grin, as if it took a while to work the smile out of him. He smiles like me.

Glen is hesitant and slow with every development, as Peeta and I suspected from what we know of him already. He's not necessarily skittish like Prim was. Prim was like a lamb as a baby. She'd jump and start constantly, startled and terrified of everything. Glen is a little calmer. He's definitely got a little bit of that frightened nature, but a lot of it seems to come from a caution and general mistrust of the world around him that I know without a doubt comes from me. I watch him in the woods, up in the trees as he tracks objects, usually birds. I take him into the trees every day. He loves the trees; sometimes I wonder if he isn't a little bird himself. He likes chickadees and mockingjays. Some of the larger ones are not trustworthy. Once, a little barn owl swoops by and Glen shoots the bird a wide-eyed scowl that is a perfect mixture of the startled fright that Peeta always gets when he's scared and the narrowed eyes and clenched jaw I get when I don't trust something. Iris giggles.

"Mama, he's so funny, he doesn't like that bird. Glen, it's okay, he won't hurt you," she pets his fuzzy head clumsily. He stops scowling a little bit, but his lip still sticks out in a pout.

"Hey, chickadee, your sister is right. He won't hurt you. He's a bit smaller than you are, and definitely smaller than us," I gesture between myself and Iris. "He's a lot more scared of us than you are of him."

Glen's pout does not completely disappear. I know half of it is that he's much too young to understand the soothing words coming from me and Iris. But I know the other half is that he's inherited my general grudging distrust of my surroundings and he will be wary of the small owl until it leaves. I sigh.

"Iris, go shoo the owl away, Glen's not going to quit pouting until it leaves."

"Okay!"

Iris scrambles to the skinny pine next to us and the barn owl shoots off in a whirlwind of flapping and a few lost feathers that get stuck in Iris's braid. She doesn't bother to remove them. Iris has my disregard for cleanliness and personal appearance. None of us, even Peeta, spend much time messing with our hair or our clothes. We all think it would be silly to worry about fashion over function.

As for the cleanliness, it's not that Iris and I keep ourselves filthy. We just have a different definition of what constitutes filth. We're both perfectly content with a small bit of soil, leaves, twigs, burrs, feathers, fur and the like on our person at all times. I know that we both give Peeta fits. He'll be fussing over those feathers, drawing them out of her hair, as soon as we get home. Glen seems to feel similar to Peeta about cleanliness. He's been sucking on his own hand for the past minute or so as Iris hops back to our tree like the little squirrel she is. As soon as he draws it out of his mouth, and realizes that he's drenched his own hand, he starts that pre-cry whimper. He spreads his hand wide and thrusts it at me, clearly hoping I'll help him.

"Come here, give me this," I sigh, taking his hand and wiping it on my sleeve. His small scowl clears as soon as I've dried his hand.

"Ew, Mama, his drool is on your shirt now!"

"I don't wanna hear it, Iris, you used to drool on me one hundred times worse than Glen does."

"Really?"

"Yes. And you still wipe your nose on me when you're old enough to use a rag and you like to play with the turkey guts when I'm cleaning game," Iris giggles and shrinks sheepishly. Between her and the constant film of sugar on our table from Peeta's baking, Glen's drool is the least of my worries. I shake my head without smiling, but Iris knows me well enough to know that that's as good as a smile from me.

Our trip through town is relatively uneventful which I am thankful for. I am past the initial rush of attention from Glen; people are more used to him now, although they still say hello to and are glad to see both of my children each time they see us. Florian does his customary hello to Glen when we stop by Sage's and Iris giggles at how Florian babbles at Glen and how Glen coos back. Sage does not seem to be in the mood for much of anything today.

"I'm glad you brought him by," she jerks her head towards Glen who stares, wide-eyed, up at me, listening to Florian still. "This is the first time today he's stopped screaming."

I nod curtly, which is as much of a sign of sympathy as we ever get from one another.

"He sounds like Iris when she was young. She used to get bored to the point that we could hardly do anything to fix it. She just took everything in so fast there wasn't anything to fill the gap."

"What did you do?"

"I had stopped taking her out to the woods, so I figured out how to bring her back."

"Well neither one of us can navigate the woods, so I'm not sure what to do about it. He might be bored, but I don't know what to do about it," she repeats with a sigh. "I have to stay here. I'm doing my best. I'm just afraid it's not always good enough."

I nod, scowling. I know the feeling too well. I have been, since the day that Iris was born, afraid of what I'm doing wrong. But people like Peeta, and sometimes Sage herself, have been helping me through it since then. I can't be perfect. No one can. My best, with any help I can get from Peeta, Sage, my mother, and sometimes a rare tip from Haymitch, is all I can do. I do wonder, though, if I can help Sage a little in return.

"He likes new sounds when we come do the door, right?"

"I think so. He's quieter at least. There's not much variation any other time of day. Only patients if they're here, and me. I talk to him a lot but I suppose it's uninteresting after a while."

"Iris."

"Yes?" she grins, lighting up, happy to be included in grownups' dealings.

"Look through this and find any nuts or berries we have," I tell her, dropping my game bag on the dirt beside her.

"Yes, Mama!"

I go around the building and start rifling through Sage's garbage. She doesn't even bother to follow me. I suppose she assumes I'm doing something that she'll find ridiculous and is sparing herself the stress. I eventually find what I'm looking for and circle back around.

"You have honey or peanut butter?"

"He's not putting that in his mouth," she sniffs, nodding at the two-day-old corn cob I'm holding.

"It's not for him. Just go get the honey or the peanut butter if you have it."

She rolls her eyes and retrieves a jar of honey anyway. I pour a thick, viscous coating over the cob and thrust the jar back at her. Glen watches with wide, shaky eyes.

"Did you find them, Iris?"

"Uh huh! Can I do it?"

This is one of Iris's new mantras. She wants to be included in everything and will ask to carry out any task she can get her hands on.

"Sure, just sprinkle them on this while I turn it," I tell her knowing full-well that she's going to get the honey all over her hands. And indeed she does. She has a light glaze of honey on every one of her fingers by the time we're done.

"Got twine?"

"Yes. Anything else you want to take from my house?"

"Not sure yet."

Sage huffs. I tie a length of twine around the cob, cut it with my knife so it has a long tail, and go around to the other side of Sage's house without explanation. I climb mid-way up a pine she has by her building and tie the thing around a sturdy branch. When I come back around she's scowling.

"Will you please explain to me what you're doing? Do you do this to Peeta at home? Just go about putting bizarre things together without explaining a thing?"

"Yes."

"What does he do?!"

"He just watches and figures it out. He's used to it after twenty years. As for what I just put in your tree over there, it's the best bird feeder I could whip together. Birds will love that stuff. Hearing birds outside might occupy him. And they definitely will if you get a couple mockingjays to start roosting there. They'll keep him entertained all day. "

Sage raises her eyebrows.

"Thank you," she mutters, half thankful and half grudging.

"Tell me if it works next time I come by."

We both nod and go our separate ways with no more words between us.

Peeta takes one look at Iris when we get home and is already bending over, gently working the feathers out of her hair. He doesn't even say anything about it anymore. It's almost involuntary.

"Hi Daddy!"

"Hi Iris," he grins softly. "Did you have fun?"

"Uh huh! We figured out that Glen hates owls!"

Peeta chuckles warmly

"I'm not sure I blame him. They're about as big as he is. I might be scared if I were that small," he continues, cleaning her hands as he talks without even looking at them.

"But it was okay because I chased him away!"

"You did? That was good of you to protect your brother like that," Peeta indulges, picking burrs off her coat. "You know what I have for you for being so considerate?"

"What?" Iris grins, blue eyes wide. Peeta's eyes are on the same level as Iris's as he kneels down to untie her shoes. They're identical to one another. Same shape, same curve in the lashes, same shade, same shine in them. I wonder if that's what others see when I hold Glen at eye-level. Eyes so identical it's as if one is being reflected in a mirror.

"I have some cookie dough that needs cutting out. With," Peeta gets up and crosses to the table, "these." He holds out cookie cutters that I know are new. I already know he bought them just for her. They're in summer shapes for the season. Flowers, butterflies, birds. Iris grins the wide grin that Peeta gives her all the time.

"I can do it?"

"Of course. We can decorate them after."

I know Peeta is trying to enjoy what time we have with her before she goes back to school in a few weeks. We will have weekends with her, but on weekdays most of her day is taken up with school and bits of homework. It breaks up the day to the point that our time with her is a bit limited. I sit down next to my mother with Glen still wrapped up close to me. I wordlessly lift him and hand him over to her. She smiles and cuddles him to her, grateful. Her eyebrows furrow after a moment though.

"Mom? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just. I think I have to go home soon, Katniss. I got a call from the hospital in District 4 today asking when I thought I was coming back."

"Oh. Are you sure you want to go? You can stay longer if you want-"

My mother shakes her head, smiling.

"No. It's been wonderful to stay with all of you. But I can't stay here forever. You two have your own lives and so do I. I love you all but District 4 is where my home is and where my life is. And you don't need your mother hanging around here forever," she laughs softly. "I'll stay until Iris is back in school so you have an extra hand around here while you have both of them here every day. But once she's back I think it's time for me to go."

I nod once. She's right. Having my mother around was invaluable while I was pregnant and during the first few weeks having Glen around. But it is indeed time. My mother and I are now on good terms, but we will never be similar people. What makes us happy couldn't be more disparate. My mother loves the warm beaches of four, she loves bustle and activity, she loves healing and working in the hospital, she loves the large community. I could never leave the cool of twelve for long. I love the calmness of the woods, the town that barely has a few hundred people in it, the quiet life I've built myself away from as many prying eyes as possible. We will always be different. It's just that now we both realize that we can be different and still get along. I nod and smile my quiet smile.

"You stay as long as you want, but feel free to leave when you need to."

She nods.

"Until Iris starts school then."

"Sounds just fine to me."

My mother is around long enough to watch Glen grow a little more. It's only a few days later that he finally laughs after babbling and smiling for a little more than a month now. We're all shocked to hear him at first because he's normally so quiet, even when he cries. Iris is sitting next to him, the both of them on the same blanket we used to let her roll around on as a baby. She's making faces at him because it makes him smile. There is one he seems to find particularly funny as Iris crosses her eyes and puffs out her cheeks. It starts slow, but eventually we all fall silent as a bubbling giggle erupts from him. Peeta and I stare at him for at least a full minute before turning to stare at each other.

I grin at him and I watch his eyes well up a little. We're both thinking the same thing as Iris starts cackling with him. Iris laughs just like me. And we can both hear that Glen, as he giggles with her, laughs like Peeta. Further, it's just like Iris to have laughed for the first time at Haymitch. And, in comparison, it's just like Glen to laugh for the first time playing with his big sister. Peeta goes over and kisses them both on the forehead. I sit quietly and grin like I didn't think I would ever be capable of doing again twenty years ago.

It takes a while for Glen to learn to lift his head and chest up off the ground. Iris went straight from that to rolling over and crawling about, but then, Iris has always skipped middle steps. She learns fast, but also tends to make little mistakes along the way as a result. Glen refuses to move on until he's sure that he has absolutely mastered the preceding step. He does little baby pushups for a full week without doing much else. He also learns to grab things in this time, although he is much more timid about it than Iris. Iris, when she learned to grasp things, snatched the end of one of my arrows and popped it in her mouth. Glen ends up slowly and carefully handling one of Peeta's sugar flowers on an evening when Peeta is finishing up a cake. Glen is bound up with his back to Peeta's chest. Peeta leans down for a moment to pick up a fallen paintbrush that he uses for his baking pigments. By the time he's upright again he looks down to find Glen clutching the little white and yellow daisy by the petal, examining it with a serious gaze. Peeta giggles and my mother grins.

"You like it, chickadee?" he asks. Glen doesn't reply. He just keeps turning the flower about, watching the colors reflect in the light.

"Do we have a little baker here?" my mother asks eagerly.

"Maybe. I guess we'll find out as you get a little older," Peeta ruffles Glen's blond curls that mirror his own.

"He might just like it because he knows its harmless," I roll my eyes, but I smile all the same. "He's a bit skittish. A daisy made of sugar is about as safe as you can get."

"What's going on?" Iris demands. The fact that Glen has hit a milestone is lost on her.

"Look, Iris," Peeta nods. "Glen learned to pick things up. See? He picked up one of Daddy's sugar flowers."

"Oh."

Iris seems a little uninterested. She's not convinced that learning to pick something up qualifies as a skill.

"It's a big deal for babies," Peeta explains. "You had to learn to do it too."

"I did?"

"Yes," I affirm. "But you grabbed one of my arrows first."

Iris cackles, obviously thinking it's very funny. My mother giggles too, though.

"I didn't know that. Goodness, she is definitely yours, isn't she?"

"Yes. Just a more friendly version of me."

"That's true," my mother continues to giggle. "You were always a prickly little thing."

"So I've heard," I mutter, choosing now to make the first cut skinning a squirrel. "I'm just glad that neither one of them seem to have inherited that."

"I'm not sure that was inherited on your part Katniss," my mother tells me, her smile disappearing, a bit of regret still on her face. "That was just how you handled everything with how it was then."

"I guess so," I muse. I watch Iris, with her dark braid that trails over her shoulder like mine does. I feel a flash of pain when I realize that, if put in the same environment I was in when I was a child, she absolutely has the capacity to be as prickly as I can be. I can see it. I can see her eyes turn distrustful and guarded, see that her blue eyes have the potential to flash angrily like mine, can see her face become desperate and wild in my mind's eye. I can see her throw herself, agonized, in front of Glen like I did Prim. I have to dismiss the thought quickly before it consumes me. Even after I push past it, it lingers in the back of my mind. I do not know if it will leave any time soon.

"Everybody had their own way they had to handle it. Mine was just different than most," I reply, making sure my mother knows that my forgiveness still stands. She smiles gratefully. I am grateful that the image of Iris in my mind's eye likely does not have the potential to become reality. It is the image of an Iris in the old District 12 that is the sort of picture that made me refuse to have children before the Capitol fell. It is frightening. I can see that every part of myself I want to forget is possible in her. All I do for the rest of the night is try to forget. Peeta has to hold me that night for hours in one of the first relapses I've had in months. I cannot bear the image of Iris's unfettered happiness disappearing and distrust taking its place.

It takes me a week to move on from my small relapse. It is only a week before Iris goes back to school that I pull past it and only because our house starts bustling, getting her ready to go back to school and getting my mother ready to leave. Peeta and I get Iris's school things together. I make her a new set of pencils and crayons, Peeta gets her a new notebook and a new pink eraser just like last year. We place it back in her yellow bag that was Peeta's. I also take Iris outside as much as possible since she'll only be able to come with me on weekends once school starts back. Iris enjoys prattling to everyone we see in town this week since she knows she won't see them as much when she's in school. She is particularly interested in asking Sage if our bird feeder we made a while back is working. Sage grins.

"Works like a charm. He loves the birds. And there are two mockingjays that come by once a week or so. They keep him occupied. If you could add food to keep them coming back, that would be helpful, Iris," she smiles a little.

"I will!" she promises, grinning, glad to feel useful.

"Oh, I also have this for Florian," I stop, digging something out of my bag. It's a rabbit pelt I've been working to get ready. "Here. I figured he'd like the way it feels."

Sure enough, as soon as Florian gets a hold of it, he babbles incessantly, tangling his fingers in the soft fur.

"Thank you. He's been so good the past few weeks thanks to you two."

I just nod my customary nod and she does too.

The day that Iris goes back to school is temperate and mostly sunny. Peeta and I do not force her to wear a dress this time. She so thoroughly despises them and she looks less presentable in them than if I dress her in what she wants. For one, her customary brown trousers hide more dirt and second, she'll intentionally get mud on the dress to encourage us not to put it on her. My mother tends to Glen while I scrub her down. Glen has learned to recognize his own name and my mother keeps his attention by calling his name and watching him giggle when he realizes she's talking to him. It keeps Iris fairly occupied as I braid her hair at the breakfast table. She eats all of her breakfast without too much mess or fuss because she's so occupied with him. Glen is a wonderful influence on her.

My mother is due to leave in the late afternoon. We send Iris on her way and I scramble up on the roof as usual. My mother is surprised for a split second before she shakes her head with Peeta. Glen makes grabbing motions at me from Peeta's arms.

"Just a few minutes, chickadee," I smile mutedly at him.

I watch Iris bound down the hill from the Victors Village. She collides with Holly, knocking her clean over. They do this all the time. They knock each other over and tug at each other's hair like puppies nipping at each other. The two are perfectly happy to roll about in the dirt for a moment while Rosemary watches shyly, giggling at her friends. Hazel drags them up before Holly can drive Iris into the mud puddle she's spotted. I nod once and scuttle down from the roof.

"She's fine."

Peeta smiles contentedly and wordlessly hands me Glen, who draws my braid into his splayed hand, clutching it with his small, pink fingers.

I help my mother pack up any stray items she hasn't gotten to. Peeta makes sure she has recent pictures of both Glen and Iris in her bag, plus a small family portrait of all of us that he painted himself. It's an apt illustration. None of us are looking out of the frame as we would in a portrait. I've clearly just come from the woods; I have stray leaves in my hair and I'm in the act of slinging my game bag over my shoulder with Glen wrapped at my front, staring warily out with his back to me. He looks towards Peeta at a tray of cookies he has; he doesn't seem to trust them. I'm looking at Peeta, smiling quietly, and close-mouthed as usual. Peeta looks back at me, and he's painted himself with his customary dusty covering of flour on his arms all the way up to the elbow. He has on that warm, soft smile that makes his eyes shine the way I love so. Iris's wavy, dark head is butting up against his elbow as she reaches unabashedly for the same tray of cookies that Glen eyes warily, an unruly grin on her face. We form a jumbled circle of activity. We look happy and I realize that this isn't an unattainable fantasy, some hope for a better time. This is now. This is us. This is real. I tell Peeta I love it and it's all I can choke out before my throat closes up on me.

My mother scheduled her train out just after Iris gets back from school to make sure that we could all go with her and say goodbye. There's no time for me to go out to the woods today; my mother leaves too early and it's not fair of me to leave Peeta to make sure she's set to go. He already does enough. If not for Peeta, I doubt any of us would get anything done. I've heard him innocently mutter more than once that dealing with all of us is like herding cats. He's not wrong. Between me running through the woods all the time, Iris making a constant mess of things, and Glen's distrust of anything and everything, I'm sure Peeta feels at times that he's the only sane one among us. So I stay today to try to help him. Peeta's movements seem to have a lighter spring to them than usual. He loves it when I'm inside with him for the day. He'd never tell me that because he knows I thrive outside. Now that Iris is going back to school, I resolve to come in a few hours early a few days a week so I can see that lightness more often.

My mother has her suitcase in hand when Iris bursts through the door. I climbed down from the roof and went inside as soon as I saw her cross through the Victor's Village gate. Peeta takes my mother's suitcase and hands her Glen. She cuddles him tightly. My mother loves that baby and clearly wants to have as much time with him as possible. Glen is perfectly content; he loves to be cuddled more than anything and is instant friends with anyone who will hold him for any length of time. Iris bounds about at my heels.

Everyone waves at my mother as she heads for the station, which is at the other end of the central road that runs through town. They know she's leaving and have likely said their goodbyes to her already, but the friendly and close-knit District 12 can't resist one final wave.

Iris tears up quickly once it hits her that her grandmother is leaving. Iris is always an open book; she is not afraid to let people see how she feels, even when she's upset. It's something I admire about her. I myself cannot allow anyone other than my family to see me visibly shaken. Iris has no such fear, and Glen doesn't seem to either as he whimpers at being handed back to his daddy, making grabbing motions at his grandmother. In this respect, my children, even as young as they are, are infinitely stronger than me. They're like Peeta that way. Emotion is not a thing to fear. I hope with everything I have that they retain the trait through adulthood.

I am not good at goodbyes, especially ones that leave me feeling conflicted. I know that it is time for my mother and I to go separate ways, but it is unexpectedly difficult for me. I suppose it's because I feel as if I've gotten back the mother I wanted so badly when Prim and I were children. I've forgiven her and she's forgiven me. There is no more anger to make the parting easier. I am legitimately sad to see her go. All I can do is choke at her the way I do when I'm upset. She draws me into her willowy arms.

"It's okay Katniss, I'll call you as soon as I'm home. You can always call me. And the train ride isn't that long. You can always come see me, or vice versa."

I just nod at her. She draws my face into her hands and stares at me.

"You'll be fine. You've got Peeta and Iris and Glen. It's going to be okay."

I nod once more. She hugs me tightly and lets go. She says her goodbyes to Iris, which consist of much of the same thing except that Iris cries openly where I keep it choked in. Peeta's eyes glimmer a little as he says goodbye to her. I hear my mother whisper to him to take care of me and he assures her that he will. She pets Glen's head one more time and he whimpers at her. With that, she disappears on the train.

When we're back in the house, it feels as if a piece has been taken out of something. Out of me, out of the fabric of every room that I can see her sitting in. I do not handle it well. It's not as severe, but it has echoes of how I felt when Prim died. Of course my mother is still alive and well, but the house still has that feeling of something missing and the memory of that sensation hits me hard. Peeta has to stick close to me all night. I have the feeling all night, the same feeling I've dealt with whenever someone I love has died, that maybe I imagined it all and that they never existed in the first place. It is only hearing her voice on the phone telling me that she is home and happy to feel the warmth of District 4 again that dispels the panic.

I am uneasy for a few days after my mother leaves, but eventually routine makes every day a little easier. My days are more structured now that Iris is in school and it helps me re-establish a sense of normalcy. But even on days that I don't feel normal, Peeta is always there. I find myself coming back a little earlier from the woods on days that are particularly rocky so I can be with Peeta. We still stay outside. Peeta knows that there is something about trees and wind and birds and grass that gives me some semblance of peace. So we often sit in the grass in front of our house, or in a large, gnarled oak at the crest of the hill between the Victor's Village and the road to town. A lot of times he sketches while I watch. Others, I hum tunes to the mockingjays and smile as they spin it into their own melody. Often, we both take turns playing with Glen. The first time Glen crawls is during one such day when we're all sitting in the grass outside of our house. He scoots off into the middle of the green and promptly sits back down five minutes later to whimper at the dirt that has collected on his palms. Sometimes, none of us make any sound at all and let the companionable silence overtake.

It is difficult for me sometimes, especially when I'm stressed or feeling less-than-normal, not to hole myself up in my woods and spend days at a time hiding in the high branches of the canopy. Sometimes it feels easier, at first, to try to hide for a while. But I also know that being with Peeta, and talking to him and telling him things, helps as much. Having Iris and Glen around helps as much. So I try to find more of a balance these days. I have to remind myself that it is the combination of them both that helps me the most.

I do eventually get used to everything again. I've learned that things never return to normal, or at least what normal once was. I've learned that you just get used to things, that you redefine what's normal for you. I adapt, as I always do somehow, with help from Peeta and Iris and Glen.

Weekends are when I feel happiest, because Iris is home and can come out hunting with me and Glen. I always smile a little wider on Friday afternoons as I watch her come bouncing in. Today is particularly nice because it's in the middle of autumn and there's something about the crispness of the air and the etherealness of the light that puts me in a good mood. I watch Iris charge up the hill, making sure to hop in as many piles of leaves as she can manage. She's covered by the time she gets to us. Peeta, as usual, is already picking them out of her hair before I can scramble down from the roof. He ushers her inside, guiding her with one hand and holding Glen in the other arm. I follow them inside. Peeta lets Iris jump about for a few minutes before asking her about her homework. He always insists she get it done on Friday nights so there's no last-minute rush on Sunday night. Peeta keeps her on task. Homework for Iris on Fridays isn't usually complex. Sometimes she's supposed to find something to bring in for Monday, sometimes she's supposed to write a few sentences about what she's done over the weekend, or supposed to tell us something she learned in class, or ask us questions. Iris usually groans at Peeta when he asks her about her homework. Iris despises homework. I can't fault her for it; I always did too.

"Iris? Iris."

It takes Peeta a few tries to get her attention, but eventually she turns.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," he corrects. "What homework do you have for today?"

"My teacher told us to go home and ask our parents a question about what we're supposed to learn on Monday."

"Do you have to write anything?"

"No. Just ask and listen."

Peeta nods. This is a normal Friday night assignment, especially for a class as young as Iris's is.

"Why don't we go ahead and do that now?"

She nods. I busy myself with repairing the fletching on one of my arrows with feathers from a bird I've just plucked clean.

"Can you ask any question, or is there one your teacher wants you to ask?"

"Just one."

Peeta sighs and spurs her to continue. It can be difficult to get Iris started when she doesn't want to do her homework.

"Go ahead and ask him, little duck. You need to get your homework done."

"I'm trying to remember, Mama," she whines.

Peeta and I wait patiently until she perks up.

"Oh! I remember! What are the Hunger Games?"

_**Hope everyone enjoyed Chapter 22! I will do my best to update soon considering I just left you all with the most evil cliffhanger I could fathom. And as always, please do stop by and leave a review and tell me what you thought! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


	23. Chapter 23

_**Hi all! So I know it's been literally about a year since I updated. I'm sorry that updates have been so infrequent and that I ended on such a terrible cliffhanger. I had no intention of letting things lapse for so long, but like I mentioned last update, it's been a rough year. I had a loss in the family just before the last update. Between that, finishing grad school, and starting work full time, this year has been a bit of a rollercoaster. I hope things have calmed down enough by now that updates will be a bit more frequent. I can't quite promise anything because I'm not sure what the coming year will be like but I am still working on this in what little time I have.**_

_**Thanks again for everyone who is still checking for updates on this and still sticking around. I love seeing the messages and reviews from everyone even after months of my being inactive here. Again, even if I don't have the time to reply to all of them, I do indeed read them all and they are still bright spots in a year that was otherwise difficult. Thanks again and I hope you enjoy! I promise no cliffhangers this time. :)**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**_

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am from District 12. I was in the Hunger Games twice. I was the Mockingjay in the war against the Capitol. The Capitol is gone. My sister is also gone. She was killed by a bomb. Gale may have been the one who killed her. My mother doesn't live here anymore. District 12 was destroyed. District 12 is being built back up. I live with Peeta Mellark. We have a little girl named Iris. She has my dark hair and Peeta's blue eyes. We have a little boy named Glen. He has Peeta's blond hair and my grey eyes. Iris has just asked what the Hunger Games are. I do not know what to tell her.

"Mama?"

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am from District 12. I was in the Hunger Games twice. I was the Mockingjay in the war against the Capitol. The Capitol is gone. My sister is also gone. She was killed by a bomb. Gale may have been the one who killed her. My mother doesn't live here anymore. District 12 was destroyed. District 12 is being built back up. I live with Peeta Mellark. We have a little girl named Iris. She has my dark hair and Peeta's blue eyes. We have a little boy named Glen. He has Peeta's blond hair and my grey eyes. Iris has just asked what the Hunger Games are. I do not know what to tell her.

"Mama! What are you saying?"

I stop my monologue abruptly. I didn't realize I was furiously repeating it out loud. I am able to pull myself out of it enough to stop Iris from panicking, although I still wring my hands distractedly.

"I'm sorry, little duck. I'll explain in a moment."

I put Iris off for a moment so I can figure out what state Peeta is in. I am grateful I was able to quell my panic enough to take stock of the situation. Poor Iris has no idea that her question has thrown both of her parents into psychological mayhem. I force the panic down in my chest. I do not have time to panic right now. I cannot afford to break down. I am already unsure how many times I repeated my monologue before Iris began to notice and protest. I do not know if Peeta needs my help. The panic does not overtake again, but it is an undercurrent in my thoughts that is difficult to stamp out. Once everyone is calmer and more stable, I may need my rope in my hands to make it through the conversation.

I look over and Peeta is fighting the same battle I am. He has not completely succumbed to one of his spells, but I can tell it takes him a lot of effort to stay level. He's clutching a chair as he tends to do, breathing hard through his nose. My limbs feel like lead, but I move towards him as fast as I can. He relaxes a small bit when I put my hand between his shoulder blades.

"Peeta?"

"I'm alright. I just need a minute."

"Mama?" Iris asks again tentatively. "Was I not supposed to ask-"

"No-" I choke out. "No, you're fine to ask. Just give your mama and daddy a minute or two to think, little duck."

"Oh," she concedes, sitting back. She doesn't look thoroughly convinced that everything is alright. She's right.

I knew she would ask soon. It's taught in schools, it's in all the newspapers, in the history books, in everyone's conversations. Telling Iris about the Hunger Games is unavoidable. And as much as I knew telling her was inevitable, nothing could've prepared me for her question. I am certain that it wouldn't have mattered if she asked now, or two years from now, that I would likely react the same way. I am just grateful that I was able to pull myself together enough not to relapse in front of her. I know that one day she'll witness a full relapse, but I am thankful it's not today.

Peeta straightens slowly, unclenching his fingers. He opens his eyes when Glen babbles at him. I start a little at the sound. I nearly forgot I had Glen wrapped up at my chest. He grabs my braid as he's wont to do and I let him, happily distracted by him for a moment.

Peeta takes my hand and squeezes it a little before he sits down. Iris looks at us, expectant and a little cowed by our initial reaction to what she thought was an innocuous question. As usual, Peeta does a lot of the talking. He'll explain things much more delicately than I have any hope of doing. I'll either choke and say nothing at all, or tell her far too much for her age.

"Iris, did your teacher say anything else?" he begins. I suppose he wants to know how much he should tell her.

"No," she squeaks hesitantly. Iris is very rarely scared by anything, but I can tell she's frightened now. I feel immensely guilty for frightening her. But I also know she has to find out eventually. She will have to learn about the Hunger Games. She will have to learn that her parents are psychologically and physically scarred. She will have to learn that I relapse, that Peeta has spells, that our pasts are trauma-filled. "Um, she sent me with a note. Everyone has one."

She hands over a piece of paper after rummaging in her bag. I think she was supposed to hand this to us first and ask second. But she thought it was all innocent homework. I can't fault her for not realizing that a warning might've been nice.

Peeta unfolds the paper and smoothes out the crumples Iris has put in it. I read over his shoulder. It's from her teacher. It explains that teachers are required to start teaching this aspect of Panem's history now. It clarifies that the children are sent home over the weekend with this question so that parents may introduce the delicate subject at their discretion first. I am both grateful that the school allows parents to explain first and angry that we're not allowed to tell Iris at our own pace. But then, I reason, I doubt I would tell Iris a thing without provocation from someone else first. I reason that other parents in District 12 suffer this talk every year. But I also realize that it will be more complex for me and Peeta. Because I know without a doubt that our names will be in every lesson about the Hunger Games that Iris ever hears. Our names will be some of the first words out of her teacher's mouth. And we have to prepare her to hear it.

Peeta sighs and begins. I marvel at how he knows where to start. He always has had a way with words that I lack.

"Iris, how much do you already know about when Mama and Daddy were young?"

Iris shrinks even more, feeling put on the spot.

"It's okay, just say whatever you know. I'm just trying to figure out what you already know so I don't repeat things, alright?" Peeta coaxes kindly.

"I k-know that you said you were poor," she ventures. She's wringing her hands like I am and I have to grit my teeth. I don't like seeing Iris have to stress like I do. "You tell me a lot that you didn't have a lot of the things we have now. Um. Holly told me once that her daddy said that the Capitol used to be really bad. But we don't know why."

"Anything else?"

"I don't think so," she shakes her head. I can tell she feels like she's being interrogated. Peeta's eyebrows arch in concern; he can see it too. We both know there's no way to get through this without making her a little uncomfortable.

"It's okay, it's not a test, Iris. You're not necessarily supposed to know anything."

"Okay."

"Well, what you already know is a good start. You've already learned about how Panem votes for their presidents now, right?"

"Yes. And the Capitol is where the president lives."

"Correct. What do you know about the Districts?"

"Our teacher says that each of the districts work on their own in some ways and also with the Capitol."

"Very good. You've been paying attention in school."

Iris gives a hesitating grin at the compliment. She seems to like hearing that she's done something right after thinking that asking us about the Hunger Games was the wrong thing to do.

"Holly's daddy is right that the Capitol used to be very different, and so were the Districts. Back when your mama and I were little, the Districts didn't work on their own. The Capitol controlled everything. Does that make sense?"

Iris puzzles for a moment. She's trying to wrap her young mind around a world very different from her own. Iris has always lived in a world of relative autonomy. It will take a few minutes to explain to her the very violent and minute control that we lived under.

"I think so."

"Okay. The Districts had no say in what happened around Panem. Only the Capitol. Has your teacher taught you what each of the Districts produce?"

"Yes, but I don't remember all of them. I know District 12 is medicine."

"Even that was different when we were little. District 12 produced coal then. The mines have been buried now, but at least two thirds of every adult person in District 12 would mine for coal. It was very dangerous. The mines weren't built safely. They would mine all day, and then every lump of coal mined would go straight to the Capitol. We didn't keep any of it."

Iris is quiet for a moment.

"What if you didn't want to work in the mines?"

"Some people worked in shops in town. But very few. The District was split into two sections. There was the town. I lived there when I was little. My family owned a bakery. I worked there from the time I was very young. The other half of the District was called the Seam. Everyone there mined."

"But what if you didn't want to?"

I grit my teeth. Instead of finding my rope, I gently pet Glen's fuzzy head. It works as well if not better. Peeta sighs before continuing.

"There was no choice. You had to. Each district used to have a police force called Peacekeepers employed by the Capitol. If you didn't do what they told you, you'd be punished for it. You had to do what they told you. What you did depended on where you were born. If you were one of the few born into a family who worked at a trade in town, that's what you did. If you were born in the Seam, you went into the mines."

Iris's eyes are wide. My throat closes up seeing her look so terrified.

"What would I have done?"

Peeta draws back, puzzled. It's the first time I speak.

"It depends whether I had moved into town with your daddy or not. I was born in the Seam."

Iris looks horrified. It hasn't taken her two minutes to understand the difference between being born in town and being born in the Seam. It is both fascinating and gruelingly painful to watch her understand the social difference. To realize that Peeta was poor, but that I had nothing.

"You went into the mines, Mama?"

"No, little duck. I never did. But my daddy did, my friends did."

"But daddy said the mines weren't safe."

I continue to play with Glen's fuzzy hair nervously.

"They weren't. That's how my daddy died."

"Why did they put people down there if it wasn't safe? That's not fair!" Iris squeaks in protest. She already has that nature in her that I have. Already she is unwilling to accept that brutality as normal.

"I know, little duck. I know. It was never fair. But they didn't care if it wasn't fair. We weren't important to them."

Iris sits, stricken. She already knows that I lost my father when I was young, but now she is understanding that the losses I suffered were preventable. That I was poor, that I lost my father, because we were seen as expendable. That it wasn't mere happenstance, or bad luck. It was deliberate and institutional violence.

"Iris? Do you need a break? Are you alright?" Peeta asks, concerned. It is a lot for a young mind to take in. Even if we leave out some of the violence, even if I leave out the bloody details, it is always present. Every facet of the world I grew up in was violent. There is no way to soften it.

Iris deliberates for a moment before shaking her head.

"No, I'm okay."

"Alright. Let us know if you're not."

"I will."

"Okay. The Hunger Games were another way to keep the Districts under control, other than the Peacekeepers and the fact that the Capitol took everything we mined. So they made sure first that there was a police force to keep everyone in line. Second, they made sure we had no way to be independent, no money or food without the little the Capitol gave us to keep us alive. The Hunger Games were a third. They started almost a hundred years ago by now. You know how many districts there are, right?"

"Yes. Thirteen."

"Very good. You know your history."

Iris smiles a little once more and peeps, "I like history."

I wonder if she'll continue to after what we tell her. Peeta continues doggedly. I remind myself to thank him later for being willing to do all the talking. We both know that I can't do it. I won't make it through.

"When we were young, there were only twelve. District thirteen rebelled against the Capitol very close to the time the Capitol started holding the Hunger Games. They told us that District Thirteen had been wiped out for rebelling. They would show us clips of the District with nothing around, looking like it had been wiped off the map"

Iris rolls her eyes just like me and crosses her arms like Peeta. I almost laugh at the mixture of gestures I know she's learned from each of us.

"But District Thirteen is underground. They were trying to fool you."

"Very good, you're right again. The Hunger Games was set up right after that rebellion because District Thirteen threatened the Capitol. They made all of the Capitol's weapons. So they told them that if they let them go and live on their own, they wouldn't declare war on them. So the Capitol pretended like they had destroyed them, and started the Hunger Games to keep the rest of the Districts scared of rebelling."

"So what are they?" Iris questions, impatient. She knows we've been avoiding the subject.

"I'm getting there. To understand, you had to know some of that other stuff first. The Capitol treated it like a game, almost like a sports tournament-"

Here Iris cocks her head in confusion. She doesn't understand how a game could've kept an entire country of Districts in check.

"That's silly, daddy."

"I'm not finished. Each year, the Capitol would choose two children, one girl and one boy, as tributes from each District to compete. Once you turned twelve all the way until you turned eighteen, they would put your name in a drawing and you would have to go once a year to a reaping. Each District had one. A representative from the capitol would draw two names. Whoever got picked had to go."

"And do what?"

For the first time since he started, Peeta falters for a moment. He isn't sure what to tell her, how far to go. I remember Annie saying that even Killian, as old as he is, doesn't know everything yet. I see no reason to describe it to her fully. She's too young.

Peeta looks at me, helpless. I realize this is the one thing he doesn't have the words for. I gather the small strength I have and speak again.

"Fight. They made them fight."

Iris looks confused for a moment. I don't blame her. She has no concept of the kind of violence we were witness to as children.

"Fight? Like, playing? Or for real?"

I have to clutch Glen to me to choke out the next words. These are some of the hardest things I've ever had to say. But I have to say them anyway, and I do.

"For real. Every year. To scare the Districts, they took their children and made them fight each other."

Iris sits, wide-eyed, taking it in.

"They're over now, right?"

I can't stop the tears from welling up at the question. It is a waking nightmare to watch Iris cower, fearfully asking if they're over. I know she knows that they must be since she's never heard a thing about it before now. But the unease still seeps in.

"Yeah, little duck. They ended about twenty five years ago."

Iris slumps a little, relieved. I wait for the questions to begin again. I know she'll have them.

"How did they end?"

I look back to Peeta. He mouths a 'thank you' at me and settles his shoulders, ready to take over again.

"District Thirteen teamed up with a lot of people who had been in the Hunger Games in the past, and a few who were in them at the time. The Hunger Games were televised all across the Districts, so it was the perfect way to let everyone know that we were planning a rebellion. See, if you had been picked before and you won, you weren't supposed to get called to go again. But that year, they sent people who had been before. To the Capitol, it was just an unfortunate year in the games. But to the Districts, it was a way for people who had been before to get together and get back at the Capitol, and a way to communicate with the Districts. It was a way for people to prove that the Capitol didn't keep their promises, that they didn't treat us fairly. They used the games as a way to let them know it was time for things to change. As a symbol."

"Oh." I can tell Iris is confused. She hasn't heard the whole story yet and I can tell she's still processing the fact of the games themselves, let alone how they started, how they ended, how they were the catalyst for the world she lives in today. Peeta opens his mouth to continue, but Iris beats him to the punch. I can't tell if it's because Peeta is hesitant to explain our involvement in the dismantling of the Capitol or Iris's will to question even if she's still unsure what's going on. Either way, iris takes it out of our hands and into hers. As usual, we're running to catch up with her.  
>"Did you know anyone who had to go?"<p>

I am not sure if I am relieved or devastated at her question. We do not have to find the will to broach the topic. But either way we're faced, not only with the task of explaining the violent past of Panem, but with explaining that we were the figureheads of its abolishment. For the second time tonight, Peeta is at a rare loss for words. I clench my teeth and toy with the ends of Glen's downy curls. I will the words through the stiffness in my tongue. Peeta always speaks up for me when I don't have the words. I wouldn't have survived either of the games without it. The least I can do tonight is return the favor for once.  
>"We did, Iris. We went."<p>

"You and daddy? But weren't you supposed to be fighting?"

I swallow the lump in my throat. One day, she'll learn that my relationship with Peeta was tenuous in its beginnings. One day she'll see remnants of the publicized farce the Capitol made of us. I wonder at first if I should explain it to her.

I decide it hardly matters now. I cannot, after shattering the safe, whole image she has of Panem, destroy the one she has of her parents. And either way, it is already clear that my relationship with Peeta has always been one of survival. All of my closest ones are. Peeta has been integral to my well being since I was a child. Whether I did love him when all this started, or in what way I loved him at first, doesn't matter now. Peeta is the reason I'm alive and always has been from the time he kept me from starving when we were children to the present moment. Whether in mind or in body, Peeta holds me together. I think back to Gale's conversation with Peeta all those years ago. I remember his voice insisting that I would stay with whomever would help me survive. At the time I thought he might be right. But now I realize that survival is much more than mere existence. With Peeta, I flourish. And when Iris cocks her head confusedly with her braid snaking over her shoulder and her eyes the same shade as his shining I know that it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that we started as opponents trying to appease the romantic sensibilities of the Capitol. Because what we have now isn't a product, it isn't the Capitol's. It's ours. What we have now is ours and it's real.

I never thought I'd smile at Iris during this conversation, but smile I do when I tell her "Yes, we were supposed to be fighting. But we didn't. That's part of why they were mad. There was only supposed to be one winner. But your daddy and I made it so there were two because we didn't want to fight. So instead we acted like we would both lose so they would either have no winner or two. Either way, it wasn't what they wanted. We shouldn't have won."

"So you both got picked?"

"That's another thing they didn't like. It wasn't me that got picked. It was my sister. And I volunteered to go instead. So she wouldn't have to fight," I barely force the words out in a whisper.

Iris sits, stunned. She has always known that my sister is an important facet of my past that I don't talk about very much. She has only learned her name a few weeks ago.

"You went for her?"

"Yes. You have to understand, Prim was only twelve. She was so small. And she had been terrified for months that she'd get picked and I kept telling her she wouldn't. There were so many people whose names were in there dozens of times and she was only in once. And once was all it took. I didn't care what I had to do. They weren't taking her," I can't force the rest of it out. I am barely talking to Iris anymore and instead am in danger of a downward spiral. I place a trembling hand over my mouth. I have to stop talking about it or I won't make it through the rest of the conversation.  
>Iris is perched on the edge of her seat. She moves to walk over to me but settles back down, deciding against it. It is helpful. If she tries to comfort me, I'll fall apart. Especially as I watch her eyes flick back and forth between my face and Glen's downy head. I can see it play out in her head. I can see her think that she'd do the same in my situation. I take a deep breath and explain.<p>

"I was never supposed to go. But I did. We both weren't supposed to win. But we did."

"So how did they end?" Iris ventures, hesitant and confused. She is still preoccupied with how it all ended. She wants reassurance that it is all over. I know that it is a lot of information for her young mind to process. We may have to reiterate a few things over the coming weeks so that she understands.

Peeta takes control of the conversation once again and I slump a little in my chair, grateful for Peeta's direction. I do not know where to begin whenever Iris asks. Peeta knows how to describe it all to her in an order and a way that makes sense. I only know how to choke out the last answers to the difficult questions, the ones that have no room for elaboration or escape.  
>"You know that pin that your mama has, Iris?"<p>

"Yes," she answers, tentative still, unsure how a pin has anything to do with the dismantling of the Capitol. She no longer curls in her chair, but I can tell she is still unsure if she's done something wrong.  
>"Do you know what it is?"<p>

"A mockingjay, right?"

"Yes, that's right. Didn't mama tell you once how mockingjays came to be?"

"Uh huh," Iris leaps into the explanation. She knows the woods of District 12 almost as well as I do. She straightens in her chair, glad to be confident in her own knowledge for the first time in a conversation in which she is otherwise lost. "They're Jabberjays and mockingbirds combined. Jabberjays were made by the capitol, but over time they bred with mockingbirds to make mockingjays."

Peeta chuckles. Iris is a focused sort of person. Her knowledge is not vast and is instead pinpointed. She disregards things she thinks uninteresting or unimportant. But she has an encyclopedic knowledge of the few things she loves.

"Exactly right. But I have another question. Mockingjays were an accident, right?"

Iris pauses.

"I guess so. Because the Capitol didn't make them. They happened on their own."

"Right. Your mama wore that pin into her first games. She volunteered for her sister and went in her stead. She made friends in the games, which you weren't supposed to be doing. She protected people instead. She made it so there were two winners. All while wearing that pin with the mockingjay on it. What would all of those have in common?"

Iris swings her legs in the chair, pensive.

"Uh. They weren't supposed to happen?"

"Exactly right. None of these things were what the Capitol had in mind. But they all happened anyway. The Capitol couldn't control it. That made them angry, but it also let the Districts know that change was possible. The Capitol couldn't control everything. If they couldn't control these very small things, then there was hope for us to escape their control completely. And it worked. Your mama and daddy's first games were what made people realize that rebellion was a possibility-"

"First? I thought you were only supposed to go once."

"You're right. But remember I said that the year the games ended was the one year the Capitol sent people again? We had to go twice. Both of us. Our first games were the year before, and then we had to go again the year after. The games ended that year."

"You went twice?"

Iris is incredulous. She picks up the gist of things quickly. She already understands the social differences in the old District Twelve. And now she quickly deciphers that going into the games twice was brutal and unnecessary.

"We did. But remember that they were sending all people who had been before. People who had been promised that if they won once that they wouldn't ever have to go again. Half of the tributes, including your mama and me, teamed up. We made an alliance with a few people in the Capitol who agreed that a revolution was necessary and with District 13. We stopped the games mid-way. We broke out of the arena and sent your mama to District 13 where the Capitol couldn't get to her. Getting her out was our priority."

"They got mama out? What about you? Weren't you in there too?"

An overwhelming wave of nausea overtakes me and I have to close my eyes for a moment. When I open them, Peeta smiles sadly at Iris and squeezes my hand across the table. Even in pain, he's trying to make sure I'm alright. I squeeze his hand once quickly before withdrawing. I cannot handle both Iris's question and Peeta's kindness. It will haunt me for the rest of my life that they didn't get Peeta out of the arena. That I left him standing by the tree. I can still see his face in the murky, tropical dark grow smaller and smaller as I walk away with Johanna.

"I got there eventually, don't worry," he answers simply, shaking his head That is something that we both know she won't be ready for until she's an adult. We cannot tell her yet that the Capitol took Peeta. She is learning that Peeta has spells, but she is not yet ready to know exactly why. "But your mother was important. Remember how many good things she did in the games that let people know it was okay to fight back?"

"Uh huh. Like making them pick two winners?"

"Yes. Well they had to get your mama out because those things made her very important to a lot of people. They made your mother into a symbol. She was the symbol of the revolution that made Panem the way it is today. They called her the Mockingjay because she was like one. All the things she did shouldn't have happened and did anyway, just like how Mockingjays were made. She went to the games even though she wasn't supposed to. She won and made sure there were two winners even though she wasn't supposed to. She made friends and protected people even when she wasn't supposed to. She was proof that the Capitol didn't control us. The Districts were the ones who rebelled, but your mother was the spark that started it."

Iris scowls lightly.

"Does that make sense? Or is it a little confusing?" Peeta asks, reassuring her.

"Um. So you mean mama ended it?"

"Yes. We had a lot of help from the Districts, from people from the Capitol, from District 13. But your mother was who gave everyone the idea, the motivation."

Iris pauses again, still piecing it together. Understanding the idea of a political figurehead is difficult for someone so young.

"Iris, you know how we start the fire in the grate every morning?"

I speak up to try to explain it in terms she might understand. Peeta has done an extraordinary job explaining things to her. I would never have known where to start without him. But this is one thing I can do. I can explain to her how I became the mockingjay. I remember it in more vivid detail than I can cope with. I can explain to her how, even if I didn't personally overthrow the Capitol, I was the symbol that provoked it.

"Yes. With flint and tinder."

"Right. So what's the tinder?"

"The straw and dry wood that starts the fire."

"Good. So the makings of the fire are already there. But we can't start it without the flint. What does the flint do?"

"Make sparks. And then the sparks hit the tinder and catch fire."

"Very good. That's what I was like, Iris, with the Capitol and the Districts and the games. Like flint. The makings for the fire were already there. And once it caught, it all went up without much help from me. I was just the spark that helped everything that was already there catch fire."

"Oh," Iris frowns for a moment before her face clears and she straightens. "Mama, are you the girl on fire?"

I start in surprise and Iris shrinks a little, once again afraid that she has asked something she wasn't supposed to. I have no idea where she heard that, but I scramble to answer, as calmly as possible, to reassure her.

"Yes. They used to call me that, among other things. Where did you hear that?"

"Holly says that the person who destroyed the Capitol when it was bad used to live here. That they called her the girl on fire and she saved everyone."

All this time I've been terrified of Iris hearing about my past and she's already heard of me, even if she didn't make the connection. I marvel too at the misinformation and half-truth that passes around young children. I'm sure Holly's parents told her a more complete account of my revolutionary activity and that she didn't remember it all. Or they told her and didn't let on that the girl on fire is me. In any case, my school was no better when I was young. I am grateful that Iris has not yet heard anything from her peers that names me specifically, that I have only been mentioned in code names and euphemisms. It gives Peeta and me a chance to warn her that we will be in all of her lessons from Monday forward.

"Well, Holly isn't completely wrong. They did call me the girl on fire. And I was part of the revolution. But I still live here," I chuckle and for the first time in the conversation, Iris gives me her normal bright grin back. The fact that she is still able to smile soothes me. She is not so cowed by our conversation that she cannot revert back to her old self. "And I didn't save everyone. I was more a figurehead than anything else. People like president Paylor, like the people in the Districts themselves were the people who saved everyone."

Peeta shakes his head a little. He thinks I'm being too modest about the whole thing, as always. But he doesn't protest. Even he knows it is important to make the distinction to Iris. Though we were instrumental in the revolution, it is essential that she understand that we were far from the only important factors.

"I'm glad you brought up what Holly told you, Iris. That's another thing we need to talk about. Your teacher sent home a note that said you'll start learning about the Hunger Games and the rebellion in school on Monday. I want you to know ahead of time that your mama and daddy will probably be in your lesson."

"Really?"

"Yes. Your teacher will probably mention us. We may be in your books as well-"

"Cool!" Iris bounces up and down in her chair. Peeta chuckles and raises his hands, palms up.

"Settle down. It's wonderful that you're excited about us being in your lesson, but there's a few things you need to keep in mind. For one, daddy doesn't want you bragging to your friends about this, understood?"

"Yes," Iris sulks. She is disappointed that we've immediately tempered her excitement, but we need to instill the humility in her now. She has no idea how public our lives still are even after the Capitol stopped monitoring our every move.

"Good. What we did during the revolution was necessary, but it wasn't easy and it isn't something to brag about. There were a lot of people who did a lot more than we did. And we helped people because it was the right thing to do, not because we thought it would make us well-known or popular. I want you to keep that in mind and that's why I want you to make sure not to make a big deal out of our being in your lesson in class, okay?"

"Okay, I understand," she grumbles.

"Good. I also want you to know that your classmates probably already know who we are. They also know that you're our daughter. Don't be surprised if a lot of people ask you questions, or look at you during the lesson on Monday. Just keep your head straight and listen to your teacher. If anyone asks you questions, answer as well as you can. And if you don't know, that's okay. A lot of people are curious about your mama and daddy because we've kept to ourselves since the games ended. Just tell them you're not sure and move on."

"Okay. Do a lot of people know who you are?" Iris asks, turning her head like she does when she's curious. She already knows that most of the people in District 12 know us, but our District is only populated by a few hundred people. This is the first time she is hearing that people know of us beyond the connections we have in District 12.

"Yes, Iris. That's why it's important that we tell you these things before your lesson. A lot of people know who we are. So you may get a lot of people asking questions. Or you may also hear things about us from other people. You may hear new things about us and you may not know if they're true or not. If you ever hear anything about us, just remember to ask us. It may be true and it may not be. Just remember to check with us before taking anything to heart. There are still a lot of rumors that go around about us that aren't terribly truthful."

"How _many_ people know who you are?" she asks, growing suspicious. I interject. I see no reason to hide this facet of our past from her.

"Everyone, Iris."

"Everyone in 12?"

"No. Everyone in Panem."

Her blue eyes widen and I cannot tell at first if she's excited or uneasy. It may be both.

"Everyone in Panem? The whole country?"

"Yes. The revolution we were in affected the whole country. Everyone knows who we are."

I remember what Haymitch told me a few days ago. That it's important that my children know that they are affected too. That not only does the entirety of Panem watch my every move, that they will watch my childrens' too.

"That is why it's important that you listen to what your daddy is telling you. Everyone in Panem has known who we are either since our first games or since they were your age. And they know who you are too, because you're part of our family. Our family is an example for everyone else. Remember that life before the games ended was very difficult. People take advice on how to handle things and how to move on from us. Being a part of our family is an important job and we take it seriously.

"So daddy and I have an important job for you and that's for you to be an example too. We need you to remember that what we did was something that was necessary to help people and make sure not to brag about us being in your school lessons. We need you not to believe things you hear about us without checking with us first and to know that we will always tell you the truth if you ask. We need you to help clarify things that you know aren't right if you hear them. And we need you to remember that other childrens' families fought to change things too. They might have trouble hearing some of these things in your lessons too. We need you to help them if you can. Do you think you can do those things?"

Iris puffs up in her chair. She's been clamoring to take on more responsibility in our day-to-day tasks lately, so I know that telling her that she has a big responsibility is the best way to teach her how to handle our publicity.

"Yes! I can do it!" she grins. And I know it's true. Iris has the ability to do what I don't have the emotional stamina to do. Iris has inherited my drive and Peeta's compassion. She may very well grow into the example for Panem that I was never quite able to be. I lock eyes with Peeta and notice that his eyes are misty. I suspect that mine are too. We are proud of Iris. Proud that she handled a difficult conversation with very few problems. Proud that we know that even if things get difficult, she will be able to handle them.

"Do you have any other questions for tonight, Iris?" Peeta asks gently.

"Umm? No."

"Okay. If you have any others you think of tonight or any other time, you let us know. Now, for the moment I want you to help me with dinner," Peeta picks up seamlessly. He knows she may think of questions if left to her own devices. We have no problem answering them, but after a difficult conversation, we need a respite. Peeta busies her with small tasks throughout the night to give me space to cope. He knows that keeping busy helps him avoid a relapse and giving me room to breathe keeps my head above water. I continue repairing the fletching on my arrows until I realize that the feeling of the arrow between my fingers sends flashes of Marvel, arrow embedded in him, through my mind. I drop the arrow and leave it resting on the table for the rest of the night. I leave the game sitting on the table too. Usually cleaning game doesn't faze me, but even the slight smell of iron tonight sends me reeling. I push back from the table and spend the rest of the night alternating between stroking Glen's hair and tying knots with the rope in my hands.

That night, I cannot settle. I cycle equally through horror and relief. Peeta stays with me, both because he knows he holds me together and because he cannot sleep himself. We keep each other going in a series of questions and reassurances. We ask one another if we told her the right things. If we told her too much. If we told her enough. If she really understood. If she really can at her age.

Just before dawn Peeta whispers, "We made it through. We told her. We did our best. We're okay. Real or not real?"

I can't tell if he truly needs reassurance or not. I answer all the same. It is the only thing we can agree on. We know we've made it through one of the most difficult conversations of our lives. We know there will be others. She will have to know more as she grows older. And Glen will have to know too. But I've made it through what I've been dreading since she was born. I did it without falling apart in front of her. And however long it takes me to recover from the conversation, however many times I have to reassure Peeta that it happened, however many sleepless nights or night terrors it gives me, I made it through. I finally relax just before I answer him, more relieved than horrified for the first time tonight. I pet sleeping Glen's head in the cradle next to me and then turn over to clutch Peeta's hand, vice-like. I press my ear hard against his chest to remind myself that I can hear his beating heart, that he's here. I fall asleep just after I whisper the answer to Peeta.

"Real."

_**Hope you all enjoyed! I'll try to update as soon as I can, but I made sure not to leave any cliffhangers anymore just in case. As always, please do stop by and leave a review and tell me your thoughts! Until next time!**_

_**~Belmione**_


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